


Same Words, Different Situation

by lostangelssong



Series: Same Words, Different Situation [2]
Category: Petshop of Horrors
Genre: Gen, M/M, Medical Procedures, Reincarnation, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-06
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostangelssong/pseuds/lostangelssong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reincarnation affects everyone differently.<br/>Can things change a second time around?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

He woke with a start. _Another one of those damned dreams,_ he thought, as he groped about on the nightstand for his cigarettes. He'd been having them since he was a teenager. And they had just gotten more vivid and more frequent as he got older.

They weren't always the same. In some of them, there was a fire, an explosion he thought. It was hazy. And painful. In other dreams, there were animals, usually trying to eat him or something. In some dreams, he actually _wasn't_ in some kind of mortal peril, but he seemed to be forever searching for something. Something that would never, perhaps could never, be found. In most of the dreams he was a spy, some sort of federal agent. Either FBI or CIA, he wasn't really sure which. He had never gotten a good enough look at the badge in his dreams.

Really, the dreams only ever had two constants. The Count, who was way too pretty to be a guy, and the head trauma. And really, he had a feeling he could do without the head trauma.

Sighing, he got out of bed, tucking both cigarettes and lighter into a pocket. He would go out to the balcony to smoke. Not for fear of annoying a roommate or anything (He didn't have them. It was easier not to considering some of the more... violent reactions he had to the dreams sometimes.) but more that he couldn't afford the rent on a different apartment if he managed to burn down the crackerjack place he was living in now. So he'd smoke out on his postage-stamp sized balcony.

_You know, Mr. Howell, that's a filthy habit._

The thought flitted through his head, as he took the first drag on the cigarette. He knew the voice and yet he didn't at the same time. It was the voice of the Count. The one from his dreams.

"Yeah, fuck you too. Wait, you'd probably enjoy that, wouldn't you?" he muttered at the thought. "And my name's not Howell."

No, his name wasn't Howell. Or Vesca, or any of the other things that he was called in his dreams. It was Vincent. Not like it really mattered what his name _really_ was. Not to the dreams, anyway.

He sighed wondering, and not for the first time, if he was crazy. "You have to be crazy if you're actually planning on going to medical school," his father, a grade-A asshole and career alcoholic had informed him when Vincent had told him what his plans were. He'd ignored the old man, gone to med school anyway, and never looked back. He was in the middle of his residency right now for surgery, so it showed how much the old man knew.

_Really, you think as a doctor, you'd pay better attention to your health._

That thought was his own. Sort of. The sound of it was like something the spy in the dreams (who he still had a hard time thinking of as _him_ ) would say. Or something. Vesca Howell had been persistent to the point of being suicidal. A trait which Vincent, while he'd never admit it, seemed to share with his dream self sometimes. At least in certain areas.

"Dammit, the cigarettes are supposed to be relaxing, not make things worse," he grumbled.

"You shouldn't be smoking at all."

That voice came from a female. He sighed softly, not bothering to face her. It was just the cat. And if the fact that he could talk to animals made him crazy, well then Vincent had been crazy since he was five years old.

"You always say that, Charon," he said, rolling his eyes, and exhaling some smoke.

"That's because you never _listen_ ," she said archly.

"I do listen. I just don't pay any attention to you," he countered.

Really, Charon had followed him home during a thunderstorm back in his med school days. Back then, he'd seen her as a little girl sometimes, and a kitten other times. Most of the time now, he saw her as a busty white-haired woman. With extraordinarily vivid green eyes. Those were her most striking feature. Even on those rare occasions when he saw her as a cat (which usually was when she was annoyed at him, and sometimes when he was drunk), her eyes were still the thing about her that stood out the most.

"I don't know why I bother talking to you," Charon said, rolling her eyes.

"Because I can, unfortunately, understand you when you bother," Vincent said with a smirk.

She reached out and flicked his nose then.

"Another dream?"

"You're too fucking good at guessing."

"Dreams are generally the only things that drive you out _here_ to smoke in the middle of the night," Charon said, snorting softly. "Besides, cats are perceptive about such things."

"Unfortunately," Vincent said, sighing and taking another drag on the cigarette.

"What was it this time?"

"One of the ones where I was playing Secret Agent Man. I think. I... _he_ was looking for the damned Count again. I swear, if I ever actually _find_ the damned Count, I'm either going to have to slug him or fuck him senseless. Maybe both. Hell, _probably_ both," Vincent said, smirking a bit.

Oh, the count was gorgeous in the way a hunting cat was. Pretty and dangerous, and definitely had that "I need lunch and you're getting eaten," air about him. So yeah, fucking him senseless would be nice. But slugging him might be better. After all, there had clearly been a _lot_ of unfinished business between Howell and the Count. Especially if _Vincent_ had been the one to get saddled with it god-knows-how-long after it had all originally happened.

Charon wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. _Humans._ You all have a one track mind."

"Like cats are really that much better," Vincent teased.

"At least we do it and get it over with. You humans think about it _all_ the time. Doesn't it get tiresome after awhile?"

"Don't you have anything better to do? Like go chase mice or something?"

"Hmph."

A flick of her tail and bounding down onto the fire escape let Vincent know _exactly_ what Charon thought of that idea. And then she was gone. For the time being at least. She'd be back in the morning, probably trying to eat his toes when he inevitably tried to sleep through his alarm. Of that Vincent was certain.

 

*~*~*

"Retiring?" Vincent growled, his eyes widening at the news. "What the fuck do you mean you're retiring! You can't retire! You've been doing this forever!"

"Which is _why_ I'm retiring. Calm down, Harris. My replacement is very good at what he does."

Vincent sighed. Seven thirty in the morning was _way_ too early to be dealing with this kind of news. It had been bad enough that Charon had decided to chew extra-hard on his toes that morning when he'd slammed the alarm clock in favor of an extra 10 minutes of sleep. Then, traffic had been a pain in the ass, and that was even _with_ the fact that he drove a motorcycle. _Why_ there was bad traffic at six-ten in the goddamned morning, the world would never know. And now, of course, when he'd been at work less than an hour and didn't have _nearly_ enough caffeine in his system, he found out that Dr. Kyle Goodman, his mentor, and the attending physician at the hospital (not to mention the one that pretty much reviewed and approved _all_ the resident surgeons' decisions) had just announced that he was retiring.

"It's too fucking early for this kind of depressing news," Vincent groaned.

"Harris, you'll live," Dr. Goodman said, rolling his eyes.

"Oh sure I will," Vincent said, snorting softly. "Your replacement is probably going to hate me."

"Well, with the charming personality _you_ tend to have in the mornings..."

"Gee, thanks," Vincent said, rolling his eyes. "Christ, I need a cigarette."

"You might, but you it'll have to wait!"

That all-too-perky declaration had come from Madeline, Vincent's disgustingly-cheerful pet intern. She was still in her internship year, and for some _unknown_ reason she'd latched onto him. And Goodman, thinking that the cynical young doctor needed someone to counterbalance him, had made her his assistant.

"How the hell are you so damn perky in the morning, Maddy?"

"I drink my coffee _before_ I get to work!" Madeline said, grinning now. "Anyway, you have an operation to perform in a little over half an hour. You should start getting prepped now."

"You had to remind me. I had almost managed to _forget_ about my _lovely_ patient," Vincent said, making a face.

"Now now, there's nothing that bad about Mrs. Carmody," Madeline said, rolling her eyes.

"She's a mean old witch," Vincent countered.

"Well, at least she'll be unconscious during the surgery!" Madeline proclaimed, beaming at him. "Come on!"

Vincent shook his head, even as he let his too-eager assistant half-drag him down the hall. "You're way too fucking perky, Maddy."

"Harris! There's a staff meeting of the surgical staff this afternoon! 3 pm! Don't forget!" Goodman called after him.

"I'll make sure he's there!" Madeline called back.

"Gee, thanks Maddy. You're really too damn kind."

"You'd better learn to watch your mouth," Madeline said, trying to look solemn. "Or I'll be forced to wash it out with soap."

"Promises, promises. Come on. Let me go so I can get prepped. I need to operate on the Wicked Witch of the West. It's probably not good to keep her waiting."

 

*~*~*

"And so it is with heavy heart that I'm announcing my retirement. I will remain until the end of the month, but no longer than that. However, a suitable replacement has already been found," Goodman informed the surgical staff at the meeting.

Vincent half-wished that the surgery and his rounds had taken just a _little_ bit longer, so that he could miss hearing information that he already knew. Of course, he would rather not think about Dr. Goodman retiring. The idea just didn't sit well with him. He couldn't say why. A hunch. And his hunches were usually right.

"No one could ever replace you, Dr. Goodman!" Madeline piped up from next to Vincent, though her statement was met with murmurs of agreement from some of the other surgeons.

"Thank you, Madeline, but flattery won't get me to stay."

"It isn't flattery if it's the truth!" Madeline proclaimed, nearly sparkling now.

"Christ, Maddy, tone it down, would you?" Vincent grumbled.

"Oh, let her be, Harris," Goodman said, laughing a little at Vincent's irritated expression. Then he got back down to business. "Of course, I didn't just call this meeting to tell you what most of you have already heard by now.  As most of you have probably also heard, Dr. Williams will be stepping in to be my replacement.  I trust you all will play nice with her."  

Dr. Williams had been practicing at the hospital only a few years less longer than Dr. Goodman had.  That should have put most of the doctors at ease.  And it did.  For the most part.  However, a feeling of dread settled in Vincent's stomach and he suddenly wished that he could be somewhere, _anywhere_ but here. He felt Madeline's hand rest on his arm. "Are you okay, Vince?" she murmured.

He nodded, vaguely, focusing in on what Goodman was saying.  Dr. Williams wouldn't be a problem.  He had a feeling that the problem was coming next.

"It's an exciting time for St. Rita's.  A promising new doctor has agreed to join our staff here, and heaven knows we need him.  His focus lies in genetics, and he's something of a pioneer in gene therapy, especially in children.  Neonatal and obstetrics have snapped him up, but he has been making his rounds among the hospital departments, since they agreed to share him with us.  Though his main focus is genetics, he has been known for performing procedures on children where all other doctors had given up. And succeeding, at that. Some people call him a miracle worker."

_No. Oh no..._

"And, so, I thought you might like to meet him.  Everyone, meet Dr. D."

Vincent hissed in a breath the moment before a man with long, braided hair walked into the room. It was the Count.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he murmured.

"Vince? Are you okay? You went pale all of the sudden," Madeline said, real worry in her voice.

 _Of course I went fucking pale. I just came face to face with the man I've been dreaming of for years. Oh yeah, sure, Maddy. I'm just fucking peachy,_ Vincent thought. He couldn't come up with a proper answer for her though. He was far too busy staring and feeling like he'd been shot in the gut.

Dr. D was talking. Probably some just-too-polite-to-be-sincere speech about how thrilled he was to be there or some other such tripe. Vincent wasn't listening. Or rather, he was hearing the words, but they weren't making any sense. And in his mind's eye, it was a different image that he saw. The Count, hair unbound and his outfit splattered with blood, daring him, daring _Howell_ to pull the trigger.

"Maddy... cover for me, okay?" Vincent murmured weakly, before getting the _hell_ out of there, not waiting for her to answer.

 

*~*~*

His hands were shaking slightly as he lit a cigarette. He'd gone outside to smoke. He couldn't fucking do this. He hadn't expected to ever really _meet_ the Count. The Count was dead. Or so he thought. He had never expected to come face to face with whatever-this-was in such a violent manner. And to top it all off, there was probably going to be hell to pay, from Madeline and Goodman both once they found _where_ he'd gone. Not like he could really properly explain this whole mess to either of them. The only one that knew about his dreams was Charon, and even she couldn't really help him with them.

"Christ," Vincent muttered, taking a long drag. "Jesus Fucking Christ."

"That certainly isn't any kind of language for a doctor to use, is it?"

That voice... he knew that voice. It belonged to the Count. There was polite interest that was a bit _too_ polite, and he could almost, not quite but _almost_ , hear the sneering amusement just under the surface.

"I've said worse," Vincent said, not quite able to bring himself to turn around quite yet.

"I was wondering if you are quite well? You certainly tore out of the meeting in a hurry. Your friend--"

"Intern. Assistant. Madeline's both," Vincent corrected him.

"Your assistant said that you had a patient that you needed to check on, and that an emergency had come up."

_God bless you, Maddy._

"However," the Count continued, "if that's true, then why are you out here smoking instead of checking on your patient?"

"Because, I did that _before_ I came outside to smoke," Vincent said, a touch more sarcastically than the situation probably warranted.

"Did I wrong you in a past life, Dr. Harris?" the Count asked. And the tone when he said Vincent's name was one that the resident doctor was _well_ acquainted with. It was the same one that the Count used when he said "Mr. Howell" in the dreams.

Finally, Vincent turned around, meeting the Count's eyes unflinchingly.

"I don't know, _Doctor_ D. Why don't you tell me that?"

The Count's eyes widened just a fraction, and he hissed in a very soft breath. That was a look of surprise all right. Or as close as the Count would probably come, Vincent realized. For a moment, time stood still. Neither one of them saying anything. And when the silence was broken, it was the Count who broke it, shaking his head.

"Really, Dr. Harris, I've no clue what you're talking about," he said, brushing it off.

"Of course you don't," Vincent said, unconvinced.

Really, if the Count had actually _admitted_ it, that would have been _far_ too easy, wouldn't it?

The Count shrugged slightly, before smiling at Vincent. It was, Vincent noted, not a very happy smile. It was more like the smile a lion would give a gazelle before catching it and tearing it to shreds.

"I do hope that this... problem of yours doesn't impede our ability to work together, Dr. Harris," the Count said, before nodding. "Now excuse me. I have actual _work_ to be doing, and can't afford to spend any more time standing out here and watching you give yourself lung cancer."

That said, the Count swept back inside, and Vincent took another long drag and finished his cigarette.

"Christ," he muttered. "I really think I liked it better when the bastard was just a dream. At least then, I could wake up and he wouldn't be around anymore."

Unfortunately for him, the dream had become a reality. And Vincent was just going to have to learn how to deal with it. He just hoped that it wouldn't involve quite so much head trauma this time around.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Vincent knelt in the confessional, still not believing he was doing this. He didn't know why he thought that going to confession would help matters. It wouldn't make the Count magically go away. It wouldn't keep Goodman from retiring. And it wouldn't change the fact that, despite his best efforts to the contrary, the little boy that had been brought in from a crime scene with rather large glass shards sticking into vital parts of his anatomy had died on the table while Vincent had been operating on him. The fact that multiple people had assured him that the boy had limited time to live in the first place definitely didn't change things.  
  
Nor did it keep him from checking a wince when the wooden panel slid open.  
  
"Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It's been," a pause as he tried to remember, "too damn long since my last confession."  
  
"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" the priest asked.  
  
Vincent snorted. "My mother died having me, and my father never let me forget it."  
  
The priest was quiet for a few moments, not quite sure how to respond. Vincent was about to light a cigarette, before the priest responded.  
  
"What brings you to me?"  
  
 _Ah, finally we're getting somewhere,_ Vincent thought, before sighing softly.  
  
"See, that's the thing. This isn't really something I can talk to anyone about. It's a lot of shit coming to a head. But I figure, the Lord's supposed to forgive anything, right? Even crimes you haven't committed."  
  
"I will not have you blaspheming in my church, young man," the priest said, sounding affronted.  
  
Vincent snorted. "Figures. First time I go to confession in years, and I get the most holier than thou priest in the fucking city. You know what? I don't need your approval. I just need to vent and then I'll get the hell out of here."  
  
The priest was silent at that, waiting for Vincent to do as he said he would. Vincent's hand wandered up to the St. Christopher's medal around his neck, and he toyed with it as he thought. "I'm a surgeon, father. My job is to save people. To help them. To cure them. Yesterday... yesterday a little boy was brought in. Glass all over him. All _through_ him. They brought him to the hospital. They brought him to me."  
  
"That's hardly a crime," the priest offered.  
  
"You don't get it. He died on the table. He slipped away. He died and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. People say that it wasn't my fault, that he was pretty far gone from the start. But I know that he had a pulse when they brought him in. And he didn't when they took him out of the OR," Vincent said, really wishing he had a cigarette now. "The bible says 'thou shall not kill', right? I was... preoccupied, yesterday. If I hadn't been, if I'd been more focused, then maybe..."  
  
He shook his head, sighing softly. "I should have been able to save him," Vincent finished.  
  
"Surely you must know, doctor, that everyone loses patients. Such a thing is unfortunate, but it's the Lord's way. The Lord--"  
  
Vincent snorted, before getting to his feet. "The Lord had nothing to do with this! What kind of God gives people life, only to take it away in a senseless accident? Fuck this. I knew it was a bad idea in the first place."  
  
And with that, Vincent stalked out of the confessional and out of the church. Why he had thought that going to confession when he hadn't been to church in over ten years would help, he didn't know. But then, he probably wasn't thinking very well at the moment. He leaned against his motorcycle when he got to it, before lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, exhaling the smoke slowly. Savoring it, almost.  
  
He should go home. Back to his apartment. Or even back to the hospital. But after just getting off of a 20 hour shift, he didn't think they'd let him set foot back in there unless he got some sleep. God knew, he didn't want to end up killing _another_ patient with his negligence.  
  
 _It isn't negligence. You did everything you could._  
  
That's what Madeline had told him when he said something like that to her after the operation. It's also something like what Goodman told him. However, the most surprising input had come from the Count of all people. Surprising in the fact that it, for once, didn't seem to be a gesture of comfort which was in reality a thinly veiled attempt to cause him pain.  
  
 _We can't save everyone, Dr. Harris. No matter what you do, and how hard you try, people will still die. **That** is one of the most important lessons you're going to have to learn about this business._  
  
He thought he'd known that. He thought he'd learned that after his first year of residency, when he was the primary surgeon for Emma Jean. Emma Jean had been 10 years old, and she had cancer. In multiple sites. He'd performed so many surgeries on Emma Jean. And every time, they thought they got rid of the cancer. And every time it metastasized and another tumor would pop up somewhere else. Emma Jean had finally died after almost an entire year of operations, and that wasn't even _counting_ how long she'd been in and out of the hospital _before_ Vincent had taken over her case.  
  
Perhaps the biggest difference was that Vincent felt like he'd poured his _soul_ into saving Emma Jean. Sure, it hadn't done any good in the end, but at least no one could accuse him of not giving it his everything. With the little boy who died yesterday, Tommy, his name had been, with Tommy, Vincent had been preoccupied with the situation. He couldn't help like feeling that there was _more_ that he could have done. That he could have worked just a _little_ harder, or done a touch more to save Tommy. And now? Now he would never be sure.  
  
Vincent sighed, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it out beneath his foot. He needed sleep. He didn't relish the dreams he was going to have, but he needed to get home and sleep. Maybe everything would look fresher in the morning.  


 

*~*~*

  
  
In retrospect, going to the bar on roughly three hours of sleep and after coming off of a 20 hour shift had been a really _bad_ idea. Because he was sleep deprived when he got there, and by the time the _Count_ of all people came in several hours after Vincent had gotten there, he was drunk _and_ sleep deprived. Which made what happened next very interesting, in the Chinese curse sense of the word.  
  
"Dr. Harris? I should think you would be sleeping, all things considered," the Count said, arching the ever-eloquent eyebrow once he saw Vincent.  
  
"Mmm... I'm not scheduled to go in until the day after tomorrow. Why does it matter anyway?"  
  
The Count snorted softly. "What good will you be to anyone if you get called in early? You could kill someone if you tried to operate on them while drunk."  
  
"What kind of a moron do you think I am?" Vincent countered, before finishing the rest of his drink. "I _wouldn't_ try to operate on someone like this. No use killing another patient."  
  
"You mean you've done so before?"  
  
Vincent gave the Count a look which clearly said 'are you some sort of idiot?' before ordering another drink. "Yesterday. Tommy. The boy with the glass all through him."  
  
"That was hardly your fault."  
  
"So everyone keeps telling me. Now are you going to lecture me, or are you going to have a drink?"  
  
For a second, just a second, the Count seemed to hesitate. Then, he sat down at the bar next to Vincent. He didn't think that this was the best of ideas, yet he was going through with it anyway. But then, things had never been easy when he was dealing with situations like this.  
  
"Order whatever you want. It's on me," Vincent said.  
  
"Really, that's not necessary," the Count said, shaking his head.  
  
"I insist."  
  
The Count sighed, before ordering a rather strong drink. He had the feeling that he would need it before this night was out.  
  
"Dare I ask _why_ you feel the need to get yourself and those around you intoxicated tonight?" the Count asked Vincent after the drink was about half gone.  
  
"Misery loves company?" Vincent offered, shrugging slightly. "I figured I'd share the wealth."  
  
"Do you always get this melancholy when you lose a patient?"  
  
"This isn't about the fucking patient, D! If that's all it was, I could deal with it! But it's not about the patient at all! It's about you!"  
  
The Count blinked, rather taken aback by that outburst. And he finished his drink, before figuring out how to process what Vincent had said. He finally schooled his face into a calm mask, before ordering another drink.  
  
"Look, Mister--"  
  
" _Doctor_ ," Vincent corrected. "It's Doctor. I did not work three jobs to pay for med school to be called _Mister_ anything. Not Harris, not Howell, none of that."  
  
The Count blinked, and drank the second drink perhaps a bit more quickly than he should have, putting it down only when the glass was emptied.  
  
"You are far more drunk than is probably healthy for you. We should get you home," the Count said.  
  
"You know, if you keep drinking like _that_ , I'm not going to be the only one who's too drunk for his own good," Vincent said, smirking a little.  
  
"Well, with you making ridiculous claims such as this entire thing being my fault, you could very well drive a person to drink," the Count replied.  
  
"It _is_ your fault though. If I hadn't been so damn shell-shocked by finally meeting you, I might have been able to do my job better," Vincent growled, before lighting a cigarette.  
  
"I've no clue what you're talking about," the Count said, looking at Vincent the way that an etymologist would look at a _particularly_ interesting bug.  
  
"You're lying. I can see it in your eyes," Vincent said, snorting softly, before knocking back another drink.  
  
"Dr. Harris, this is completely and utterly ridiculous. I will _not_ listen to the ramblings of a drunken lunatic. Clearly, I'm going to have to escort you to a--"  
  
The Count's words stopped as if they were cut off with a knife, though that probably had everything to do with Vincent wrapping his hand around the Count's wrist. The Count had reached out to help him up, or something. He'd put his hand on his shoulder at any rate. And Vincent had taken hold of his wrist.  
  
"Come back with me," Vincent said, looking down into the liquor of his recently-refilled glass. He could see a hazy reflection of the count's face swimming on the surface of the drink. And the Count, or doctor, or whatever, did _not_ look amused by the entire situation.  
  
"I will not," the Count said, his voice making it clear that such a thing wouldn't happen in no uncertain terms.  
  
"You can't tell me I don't look familiar to you. You can't tell me that you don't know, or at least _think_ that there's something else going on," Vincent pressed.  
  
"I told you before, I don't know what you're talking about," the Count said, trying to pull his hand back, looking surprised when Vincent tightened his grip.  
  
"Just come back with me. I'll explain. I think I'm drunk enough to do that," Vincent said, watching the Count's reflection dip and bob in the liquor. "I can tell you about the dreams, the flashbacks, about... hell everything. You probably know it all better than me."  
  
The Count pulled his hand away after a few more attempts. And he rubbed at his wrist, which was surprisingly sore. Vincent had a rather strong grip.  
  
"I am _not_ going anywhere with you, except out to the curb to get you into a taxi cab so that you can be taken home. And _then_ I am going to chalk this entire evening up to your drunken _idiocy_ and forget about it entirely," the Count said, looking rather nonplussed by the entire thing.  
  
"Christ," Vincent muttered, before half-stumbling to his feet. "Some things don't change."  
  
The Count, perhaps against his better judgment, moved forward to help steady Vincent. Vincent held a hand out. "I'm fine!" he growled. And he was. Before he overbalanced, and fell over, hitting his head on the bar when he went down. He ended up on his ass, with stars spinning in his vision.  
  
"Shit," Vincent growled, shaking his head to try and dispel the dizziness. Which, of course, only made it worse. "Head trauma. I always fucking get head trauma when I have to deal with you. Which sucks. I _need_ what I learned in med school this time, after all. I have no fucking desire to go out and play Secret Agent Man or whatever."  
  
The Count blinked, before kneeling down next to Vincent, wrinkling his nose slightly in distaste at the idea of having to get anywhere near the floor where god-knew-what else had laid for who knew _how_ long.  
  
"Vesca," the Count murmured, not even really aware he'd said the name out loud.  
  
Vincent looked up anyway. "That's _not_ my name. Not anymore."  
  
The Count looked surprised, perhaps at the realization that yes, he _had_ spoken aloud. "We really should get you home," he said, before offering Vincent a hand up.  
  
"I don't need your help. I'll be fine," Vincent muttered, eyeing D's hand like it would bite him.  
  
"I doubt that you'll be able to get up under your own power," the Count said, sounding amused now.  
  
Vincent scowled, and tried to get up anyway. He almost made it, before he lost his balance, and fell on his ass. _Shit._ He eyed the Count's hand, before finally taking it after a few more moments.  
  
"Still getting into trouble, even after all this time, aren't you," the Count said vaguely, before shaking his head. "We need to get you home."  
  
Vincent would have asked what the Count was talking about, but it was about that time that the head trauma, the alcohol, and the sleep deprivation all caught up with him, and he just passed out.  


 

*~*~*

  
  
Vincent woke alone, in his apartment, with a screaming hangover. He groaned, closing his eyes at the light that assaulted him. That _hurt_ far more than it should. How much had he _drank_ last night? He'd lost track. But even so, he didn't think he'd drank _that_ much. This was, arguably, the worst hangover he'd ever had the misfortune of having. Of course, it could also be the hitting his head against the bar that was causing the hangover to be worse than normal. He _did_ remember bits and pieces of the night before.  
  
"Shit," he muttered, fragments of his drunken confrontation with the Count floating to the surface of his mind. "That was the _last_ fucking thing that I needed."  
  
"Perhaps you should have thought of that _before_ the beautiful god brought you home smelling like a liquor store," Charon said archly from where she was perched on the corner of his bed, looking at him reproachfully.  
  
"What are you talking about, Charon?" Vincent asked, not bothering to open his eyes and look at her. He could guess where she was. And he was just grateful that she wasn't trying to eat his toes at the moment.  
  
"You were brought home last night by a beautiful god. He made sure you were at least _on_ the bed, before leaving. I'm not sure how he got in. He might have gotten your keys out of your pocket or something. He seemed distracted. He didn't even say _hello_ to me. Some people have no manners, I swear," Charon complained.  
  
"Fuck," Vincent groaned. This was just getting better and better. "What day is it?"  
  
"Thursday. You don't have to go to work until tomorrow," Charon informed him. "Perhaps by then you'll stop _reeking_ of liquor. I don't know why humans like the stuff so much. It smells awful and tastes even worse."  
  
"Whatever," he muttered, not really paying attention to Charon's griping. But he _did_ relax marginally at the fact that he didn't have to be at work any time in the immediate future.  
  
"Hmph. Why _do_ I bother with you? I mean really?" Charon griped, poking at him, her nails feeling suspiciously like claws against his leg.  
  
"I don't know. You're the one that followed me home, remember?" he countered. Then he groaned as the phone started ringing. "Charon, can you get that?"  
  
"And say what? You forget, Vincent, you're the only one who can hear me most days," Charon said, flicking her tail before sauntering out to the kitchen to go look for food.  
  
Vincent swore softly as he groped about blindly on the night table, his hand finally closing around the receiver.  
  
"Harris," he said, when he answered.  
  
"Good morning, Vince! How are you feeling?" Madeline bubbled from the other end.  
  
"Christ, Maddy. Tone the cheeriness down several orders of measurement, okay? I have a really bad fucking hangover. Why are you calling anyway?"  
  
"Sorry," Madeline said, and her voice at least was quieter this time. "Why do you have a hangover anyway?"  
  
"Well, generally, when a person goes out and drinks a lot--"  
  
"That's not what I meant," Madeline said, cutting him off. "I mean, it's the middle of the week, Vince. Usually, you save your benders for the weekend."  
  
"Usually I don't have a patient die on me in the OR," he countered sourly.  
  
"Vincent... it isn't your fault," Madeline said, sounding worried now. "Do you want me to come over?"  
  
"And do what? Last I checked, _you_ were on the schedule for today. The only reason I have off is they're shifting me to nights. Again," Vincent said, making a face. He hated the night shift. He was sleep deprived when he had to do it, mostly because he had a lot of trouble sleeping during the day.  
  
"Yeah, about that... um... that might change," Madeline said.  
  
"What?" Vincent asked, sitting up at that news, and then hissing at the way the world spun around at the shift in movement.  
  
"Dr. D and Dr. Goodman got into a fight about it, actually. Dr. Goodman wants you on the night shift, since he says that they could use another good surgeon on the emergency cases. Dr. D said that he'd prefer you on days, especially considering how you reacted to losing a patient from an emergency situation already. It turned into a rather big argument, and I was sent on rounds then, so I didn't hear how it ended," Madeline said, apologetically.  
  
"Fuck," Vincent swore. "Well they're going to _have_ to let me know sooner rather than later. After all, I'm supposed to start night shift tomorrow."  
  
He had a sinking feeling that his encounter in the bar with the Count was what was causing the argument. This really was the _last_ thing that he needed. He knew that the Count walking back into his life would cause trouble, but he hadn't quite figured it would start so _soon._  
  
"...and are you even listening to me?"  
  
That was from his assistant who, he realized, was still on the phone. But now she sounded rather annoyed.  
  
"What? Sorry, Maddy. I spaced out for a second."  
  
"I _said_ that I'll try to find out what's going on. And I'll come over and make you dinner," she said with a sigh.  
  
"That would be great but... don't you have to work tonight?" Vincent asked, sounding confused.  
  
"No. I had morning shift today. I'm going to have night shift with you starting tomorrow if you're on the night shift. So I'll find out what's going on and let you know. Go back to sleep, Vince. I'll be there around 6, all right?" And before he had a chance to answer, Madeline had hung up.  
  
Vincent stared bemusedly at the receiver before hanging it up, sighing softly. Obviously he was getting no say in this matter. "Sure, Maddy, see you then."  
  
He laid back down on the bed then. He should probably try to kill the hangover before she showed up. If only because, in his experience, Madeline had two settings: perky and double perky. Hell, even when she was sad about something, she was exuberantly sad about it. Vincent groaned, closing his eyes. In a few minutes. He'd take something in a few more minutes. He'd deal with both the literal and the figurative headache that this whole mess was causing him in just a few more minutes. For now he was going to take a few moments, stop, and do the immature thing and just will the Count, and all the other problems he was having to go away. He could deal with everything in a few minutes.  
  
But a few minutes later found Vincent having fallen back into a light, uneasy sleep. With any luck he'd wake up before Madeline arrived. But seeing the state of his luck as of late, that might be too much to hope for.


	3. Chapter 3

Consciousness was heralded back by knocking on his door. Loud, insistent knocking on his door at that. Vincent swore colorfully, his eyes slitting open.

" _Christ_ ," he hissed. "Charon, can you get that?"

He met with no answer and swore again, before remembering that most people didn't see Charon the way that he did. "What good is it to be able to see her as a woman if she can't do anything _useful_ like open the goddamned door," Vincent grumbled.

"Vince! You better not still be sleeping you lazy bum!" Madeline called from the other side of the door.

" _Christ_ , Maddy! Tone it down, would you?!" he growled, sitting up. "And why don't you just use the spare key that I _know_ you had made? No sense in having it if you don't actually bother to _use_ it, now is there?"

There was a pause and the knocking thankfully stopped for a few moments. Vincent waited, but he didn't hear the lock turn. And then the knocking started again.

"Vince! I can't unlock your door because I have an armful of grocery bags! Now are you going to let me in, or are you going to make me stand out in the hall all night?"

Vincent groaned, before getting up, hissing a little at the dizziness from the three-alarm hangover he still had. "Shit," he murmured eloquently as he made his way to the door, before finally opening it and glaring at Madeline.

"You look like hell," his assistant said, after giving him the once over. "Now are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to try and walk through you?"

Vincent moved, still glaring. "What the hell is all that stuff? I have food. And we could always just get carryout."

"I told you I'd make you dinner. And I've seen the inside of your fridge enough to know what _you_ consider food. I'd rather not have leftover Chinese food if it's all the same to you. Besides, I can cook," Madeline said smugly, as she started to unpack the grocery bags that she'd had balanced in her arms.

"Hey! It is _not_ my fault that I never have the time to cook!" Vincent growled. "I practically live at the hospital. What's the point of keeping the fridge stocked if the food will just spoil anyway?"

"Hence why I brought you groceries. And you can at least have leftovers of home-cooked meals for awhile," Madeline teased.

Vincent grumbled, before fishing around the kitchen for his cigarettes. "Maddy, could you tone it down at least three levels? I still have one _hell_ of a hangover."

"You mentioned as much earlier. But generally, you don't go on benders in the middle of the week, whether you have a patient die on you or not," Madeline pointed out as she started to chop up vegetables. Thankfully, she'd taken pity on his hangover and was speaking a bit more quietly. Even if she _did_ start coughing pointedly when the smoke from the cigarette got too bad. "Dammit, Vince, do you want dinner to taste like _food_ or cigarette smoke?" she griped.

"Christ, I can't even smoke in my own damn apartment without drawing critics," Vincent grumbled, before stalking out of the kitchen to open a window.

"So what caused this hangover?" Madeline asked, noticing Vincent's wince when she asked. Though it could be because she was speaking a little louder. But it was _hardly_ her fault that she had to speak up to be heard with the increased amount of space between them.

"I told you, I was drinking," Vincent said, staring out the window.

"Vince..."

"I've never told you about the dreams I have, have I?" Vincent asked, ignoring the concerned tone in her voice.

"No, I don't think so," she said, shaking her head, looking at him a bit mystified.

"I haven't. Trust me, you'd remember if I had. You would have declared me insane," Vincent said, making a bit of a face.

"We're all mad here," Madeline supplied, pleased when that drew a small smirk from her cynical friend.

"Some of us more so than others," Vincent replied after a moment.

"So... you went on a massive bender in the middle of the week because of _nightmares_?" Madeline asked, sounding skeptical.

"Not really. The nice thing about dreams is that you eventually wake up." He looked at her, before shaking his head. "That frown doesn't suit you Maddy."

"You normally aren't so cryptic, Vince," she countered.

Vincent shrugged at that assessment. "No, but there are some situations that you just can't be sunshine, puppy dogs, and lollipops about, Maddy. Unfortunately, this is one of them."

"I will never understand you," Madeline muttered, shaking her head.

"Why do you keep trying then?" Vincent countered, surprisingly serious now.

"Someone has to," Madeline said, smiling brightly.

"What are you making, anyway, Maddy?" Vincent asked after a moment of silence.

"You know, you changed the subject so fast, that I can almost _see_ the skid marks," she teased, grinning a little when he scowled at her. "But if you _must_ know, I'm making chicken cacciatore."

"Can I help?" Vincent offered.

"Mm... get me out a big skillet and set the table. And try not to go on a huge bender like this again in the near future. I love you Vince, and you're a great surgeon, but you utterly suck as a patient," Madeline said, still teasing.

"Gee, thanks, Maddy. You're way too fucking kind," Vincent said, his tone dripping sarcasm.

"I try!" she said brightly. "Now get me that skillet I asked for and set the table! I thought you wanted to eat sometime tonight!"

Vincent grumbled, but he did as he was told. This was already shaping up to be a _very_ long night.

"Oh, before I forget to ask," he said, as he got the plates out of the kitchen, "what was decided about putting me on night shift?"

As much as he hated night shift, he was actually sort of hoping that they'd put him on it. After all, his sleep schedule was already more than fucked up enough that actually _staying_ on days at this point would be hell. At least in the short term.

"Dr. D dragged Dr. Williams into it, since she's going to be taking over.  And of course, before he did, he told her his side of the story.  She declared that _s_ _he_ was the one in charge, and that, as Goodman so _eloquently_ pointed out a few days ago, he's retiring at the end of the month. Which makes Dr. Williams in charge of the residents, which means that you're going to be kept on days for the time being. Though she _did_ say that she would at least be kind enough to let you have tomorrow off as well so that your sleep schedule could adjust."

" _Fuck_ ," Vincent hissed. "This is the _last_ fucking thing that I needed. I do _not_ need the fucking Count, Doctor, what the hell ever messing with my schedule. Besides, emergency situations can happen just as easily during the _day_ as at night."

"Calm down, Vince. And... Count?"

 _Shit. That was a slip,_ Vincent thought, ignoring Maddy's question for the time being, if only so he could figure out how the hell to answer it.

"Count, Vince?" Madeline repeated.

"It's a long story, Maddy. One that I probably can't get into without the assistance of alcohol," he offered after a few moments.

"Oh no, you aren't getting out of it that easily. Especially since there is _no_ way that I'm letting you drink any more tonight. Especially not with the hangover you have," Madeline said, actually starting to cook the food, even as she looked at him like he'd grown a third head. "If you can say it in anger, you can tell me while sober."

"Maddy," Vincent groaned. "Not tonight, all right? Seriously, I probably _would_ need alcohol to tell you the entire story. So if you _really_ want to hear it, you're going to have to wait until I have a significant amount of booze in me. I would have been able to tell you last night."

"I doubt that. Especially considering the hangover you have. I'm surprised you made it home in one piece," Madeline said, rolling her eyes.

"I almost didn't," Vincent said, making a bit of a face.

"Well, Count, Doctor, or whatever he is, you might want to try and keep him away from your office. He was in there trying to get into the filing cabinet. I think he was trying to get into your patient records."

"Shit. Why the fuck does he want to see _those?_ They happen to be what those of us in the business call confidential," Vincent growled.

"I don't know, but he was definitely around your office today."

"Thanks, Maddy, I'll take care of it," Vincent said, grimacing a little. And he would. As soon as he saw the Count again.

 

*~*~*

By the time he had finished doing the dishes and ushering his ever-perky assistant out, it was almost midnight. Thankfully, by that point his hangover had dulled to a low throb. It was still there, but at least it was manageable now. With any luck, it would be completely gone by the morning. But Vincent doubted his luck was that good.

Of course, the fact that he had slept most of the day, combined with the fact that he'd been trying to get his sleep schedule adjusted to work nights meant that Vincent was still disgustingly awake by the time the witching hour rolled around. Add to _that_ the fact that he'd suffered with insomnia on and off since he'd been in medical school, and that would be _why_ Vincent was _fortunate_ enough to be awake when the phone rang at three in the morning.

"Harris," he answered, almost on autopilot, without even bothering to look at who was calling. After all, if someone was calling him at this hour, nine times out of ten it was the hospital.

"Vinny!" the voice on the other end of the line proclaimed cheerfully.

And that remaining _one_ time, it was his father.

"Dad... what do you want?" Vincent asked, not really feeling like dancing around the issue and shooting the shit at three in the morning.

"Vinny, what kind of question is that for your father?"

His father sounded reproving, and Vincent could almost see the older man tsking at him.

"A perfectly understandable one when you call me at three in the goddamned morning," Vincent grumbled.

"Technically, it's three fourteen," his father pointed out.

Vincent groaned. "What the fuck do you _want_ , Dad?" he growled.

Really, with the cheerful note in his father's voice, and the ungodly hour of the morning, the man had to be drunk. It wouldn't be the first time. Hell, as far as Vincent knew, Anthony "Call me Tony" Harris hadn't been sober a single day of his son's life.

"I just wanted to talk to you! Is it a crime for a man to want to talk to his son?" Tony asked, and Vincent could _hear_ the frown in his father's voice. "What, are you in the middle of some big important surgery at St. Elsewhere's or something?"

"St. Rita's, Dad. It's St. Rita's."

"With the way you're wasting your life there, is it really that bad for me to hope that one day someone will wake up and prove that you actually _becoming_ a doctor is some kind of bad dream," Tony scoffed.

"We are not having this discussion tonight, Dad," Vincent sighed.

"Technically it's this morning. And you _never_ want to talk to me!" his father protested.

"That's because your idea of talking usually involves bashing me, my job, or both," Vincent said, rolling his eyes.

"If your mother was alive--"

"But she's not. As you _love_ to remind me," Vincent said acidly, cutting his father off.

"Well, it's good to see that that lesson finally sunk in," Tony sneered. "Is that why you became a doctor? To make amends for killing your mom?"

"Does it matter why? I've told you a million times over the years, and you never actually _listen_ to me," Vincent said, wincing slightly at the _tired_ note he heard in his own voice.

"That's because your reasons are all bullshit! You're crazy! You've been crazy since you said you decided you wanted to go to medical school in the first place!"

"We're all mad here, Dad. Didn't you get the memo?" Vincent asked, smirking now, even though his father couldn't see it.

"I don't know why I bother calling you. You're always such a smartass," Tony griped.

"Maybe next time you'll remember that when you call me at ungodly hours of the morning," Vincent said smugly.

"You know, that begs the question of why are you up at this hour anyway if you aren't doing the hotshot doctor thing and operating right now? What, did you kill another patient?" his father asked, the tone in his voice making it sound like such a thing was a normal occurrence.

Vincent was quiet for perhaps a second too long. The boy dying on the operating table, combined with the whirlwind of meeting the Count again, combined with the hangover which he could feel throbbing strong and merrily again did more than touch a nerve. It rubbed salt and lemon juice in a still-bleeding wound.

"Go to hell, Dad," he growled.

"I'm surprised that you aren't swimming in malpractice suits by now. I'm not surprised though. You killed your mom coming out. I'm not surprised you kill people while you're trying to treat them," Tony continued, not caring about his son's protests.

"You son of a bitch!" Vincent yelled, wishing his father was there, so he could _throttle_ the bastard.

"What kind of way is that to talk to your father? The Bible says you're supposed to honor your father and your mother. If you still went to church, you'd know that! In fact, God says--"

"What do you know about _god_?" Vincent spat. "The only _god_ you worship is at the bottom of a beer bottle."

"If the good Lord didn't want us to drink, my boy, he wouldn't have given us grapes or grain," Tony protested.

It was an old argument, and Vincent just shook his head. They were going through all the old steps again. Except this time, he was a little too raw and a little too exhausted to properly handle it. Which is why his only answer to that was shutting his phone with an almost vicious snap. Really, from the sound, it was probably impressive that he didn't break his phone. Not like he cared at the moment. He was too busy seething. Of course, if he'd had _any_ thoughts of sleeping, his father had neatly driven those from his mind.

Vincent sighed, looking at the clock. It neatly informed him that it was three forty-seven in the morning. And he sighed, getting up and stalking out to the balcony, grabbing his cigarettes as he went. It was going to be a _long_ night.

 

*~*~*

Several days later found him a bit less sleep deprived, and back at the hospital. He'd just finished his rounds, and he was heading back to his office to look something up in one of the charts for the patients that he had that afternoon, which he _really_ needed to review. It was hardly his fault that it had been a crazy day already and it wasn't even halfway through his shift yet.

Of course, when he _got_ to his office, he saw that he had a rather unexpected visitor. The Count was there. Reading through his mail, and looking utterly perplexed. Vincent blinked, taking in the scene, before shaking his head.

"You know, it's considered a federal offense to read other people's mail," Vincent said dryly.

The Count looked up, considering Vincent with a critical eye, though Vincent noticed there was still faint confusion in the Count's features.

"Not if the mail itself is addressed to the hospital," the Count replied coolly.

Vincent walked in and picked up the envelope to the card the Count had been reading. "Dr. Vincent Harris, care of St. Rita's Hospital," he said, pointedly reading the first two lines of the address. "I'd say that it was addressed to me."

"Perhaps," the Count said, completely unruffled.

"So why do you look so confused? It's just a card," Vincent said, deciding it might be easier to pick his battles in this case.

The Count was quiet for a moment, considering the card. Vincent got a glimpse of the handwriting and had a feeling he knew who it was from. Which was why he wasn't overly surprised when the Count asked the question.

"Who is Emma Jean, Dr. Harris?"

Vincent sighed softly. "I hear that you've been trying to get into my files. If that's true, then you should know damn right well who Emma Jean is."

"Unfortunately, I haven't been able to break the lock on the cabinet yet, and no one seems to have a key," the Count said, and it was quite honestly hard to tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. Though he _was_ watching Vincent expectantly, and his gaze was intense.

Vincent glared at the Count before sighing, shaking his head. If the Count wanted a story, he'd get one. But it would be his funeral. Even now, years after the fact, Emma Jean's case was still a rather sore subject. People tried to avoid bringing it up, if only because it was one thing that could set Vincent off, regardless of whether he was falling-down drunk, stone cold sober, or anywhere in between.

"Every doctor at some point in their career has a case that brings them to a realization. The realization that no matter what you do, and how hard you try, in the end in won't matter. Because in the end, your patient will die."

The Count looked startled at _that_ declaration, perhaps that it came from the cynical young surgeon, but it didn't matter. Vincent continued anyway. "For me, that case was Emma Jean Thompson. Emma Jean was ten years old when I met her. I was in my first year of residency. I was made the primary surgeon on her case, and put in charge of her life. I was young, confident, and thought I could save the whole world," he said, snorting softly.

"What was wrong with her?" the Count asked quietly. He could see the picture that Vincent was painting. It reminded him almost painfully of Vesca when he was young. Not like he would actually _voice_ such a thought.

"She had cancer," Vincent said, his hands twitching towards the pocket that he kept his cigarettes in, but not pulling them out. "Multiple sites. I would operate on her, and every time I did, I'd think I got all the cancer. And every time, more tumors would eventually show up somewhere else. It was after the first six months or so of her treatment that I realized that she _would_ die, no matter what I did, and in the end it was just a matter of time."

"Did you give up on her?" the Count asked, as if such a thing was to be expected in a situation like this.

Vincent looked at the Count like he had three heads. "What? No. _Hell_ no. I kept trying. I thought that somehow, some way, if I tried hard enough, if I fought long enough, that I could save her. I almost got kicked out of my residency because I agreed to keep treating her, even when the insurance ran out, and her parents couldn't afford treatment anymore."

The Count blinked, clearly not expecting an answer like that. He waited, expectantly, not quite sure what to ask. Perhaps speechless for the first time since Vincent had met him. It didn't matter though, he knew how the story had to end. There was only one possible ending, after all. And then Vincent was talking again, so the Count didn't have to say anything at all.

"Through it all, I fought. And Emma Jean fought. And when one of us got too tired, or started to lose hope, the other one would keep going for both of us," he said, quietly, and his hand moved from his pocket to close around the St. Christopher's medal around his neck. "About a week before she died, she gave me this. She told me that it wouldn't help her where she was going, and that St. Christopher would keep me safe. Keep me from getting lost. That's when I knew... I knew that she totally understood what was happening to her. Possibly better than I did. She knew she was dying, that it was going to be soon, and that there really wasn't anything else that could be done. And she didn't seem scared. Though, that could be because of all the pain meds she was on by the end."

Vincent sighed, fidgeting with the medal. "Emma Jean died in the fall. A month or so after her eleventh birthday. She would have been... thirteen this year, I think. Every year, around her birthday, her parents send me a card."

"Why?" the Count asked softly. It was the card that confused him. Even after hearing Vincent's explanation.

"People mourn in their own way," Vincent said. "And I guess they saw what it did to me. They saw how hard I tried to save Emma Jean. They saw what it ultimately did to me when I failed."

"What it did to you..?" the Count asked, unable to help himself.

"My innocence, my naiveté, my idiotic belief that I could save the world... they died with Emma Jean."

The Count snorted softly at the near-melodramatic way that Vincent said that. "Perhaps that's for the best. You can at least view cases realistically now."

"Just because I can 'see things realistically' or whatever doesn't make me _care_ any less," Vincent said, shaking his head.

"It's possible to care too much, Dr. Harris," the Count said softly. Perhaps he was trying to be encouraging. It didn't work very well.

Vincent growled, shaking his head more violently. "You can _never_ care too much. Not about your patients, and not about kids. Now get the hell _out_ of my office. I have a case to review, and I can't do it with you in here reading my mail."

The Count had, perhaps, touched a nerve. Either that, or touched a sore subject. As it was, he was a bit surprised at that reaction, and a bit _more_ surprised when Vincent snatched the card from Emma Jean's parents out of his hand. However, the Count's composure didn't waver, and he collected himself, before turning out.

"Good day, Dr. Harris," he said, before taking himself out.

"Good fucking day yourself," Vincent growled once the Count was gone.

He needed a cigarette. He could review the case in five damn minutes. Right now he needed a cigarette and to clear his head. So, he headed out to smoke, still holding the card from Emma Jean's parents in one hand. He had time. The day could go back to being crazy in another few minutes, but for right now, he had time. And that was all he really needed.


	4. Chapter 4

"Clearly, you're too sleep deprived to know what you're saying. Sean Connery was _obviously_ the best James Bond," Madeline argued, before taking a sip of her coffee and leaning back in her chair in the break room.

"Maddy, we've been through this," Vincent said, wishing he was allowed to smoke inside, and taking a sip of his _own_ coffee instead. It had been a long shift already and they were barely halfway through it. "He is not. Daniel Craig is."

"You just like his body," his ever-perky assistant teased, before sticking out her tongue.

"That's not it," Vincent said, shaking his head. "I mean, it's _part_ of it, but what I like is his _attitude._ "

"Connery had attitude."

Vincent paused, that disconcerting feeling that in another time, another place, another _life_ , he might have agreed with her. He took an almost vicious drink of his coffee before countering that statement.

"Connery is a suave pretty boy. That hardly constitutes _attitude._ Craig can kick someone's ass six ways til Sunday, shoot up an embassy, _and_ break into M's house," Vincent argued.

"Touché," Madeline agreed. "And, you never did get to see Sean Connery tied naked to a chair," she said consideringly.

"Exactly," Vincent said smugly.

"What _are_ you two discussing?"

That question came from the doorway, and both of the people in the break room looked up to see the Count standing there. Of course, before Madeline could even think of an answer, Vincent was moving in for the kill.

"The theatrical and cultural values of James Bond movies," Vincent said, his voice perfectly serious, but his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"What?" the Count asked flatly.

Madeline couldn't help it. She burst into giggles at the Count's reaction.

"I'm glad that you find this all so amusing Ms. Chase," the Count said, his voice slightly clipped. He did not like being laughed at.

"Doctor," Vincent corrected. "Maddy went to med school too."

"She is still in her internship year, and your assistant on top of things. I'd hardly say that she--"

"Madeline is _highly_ competent and skilled in her field," Vincent growled, cutting the Count off. "I don't appreciate it that you feel the need to fucking interrupt us on a break so that you can insult my assistant."

"And why are you taking a break in the first place when there are lives at stake?" the Count asked acidly.

"Because we don't want to accidentally sew scalpels into our patients because we're too exhausted to realize it," Vincent replied, the acid in his tone meeting the Count's.

"You know, doctor, I could ask the same of you," Madeline cut in sweetly.

 _Bravo, Maddy,_ Vincent thought, somehow managing to bite back the smirk that was threatening to work its way onto his face.

"What do you mean?" the Count asked.

"Well, if lives are at stake, and you don't think that we should be taking breaks, and _you're_ the current golden boy of the hospital, then why are you here?" Maddy asked, her tone still sweet.

The Count's eyes narrowed, but beyond that there was no reaction. The Count didn't explode, or start screeching in Chinese like Vincent (or perhaps it was Vesca Howell's memories) half-expected him to. In fact, he took a breath and smoothed his features back into that damn calm mask before answering Madeline's question.

"While I hardly meant to interrupt your discussion of _fine cinema_ ," the Count sneered, "I actually am here for a _reason_."

"Which is?" Vincent asked, almost willing the Count to _go away._

"I have been tasked with telling the surgical staff about Dr. Goodman's impending retirement," the Count said stiffly.

"We know about that already!" Madeline proclaimed brightly.

It seemed like she and Vincent were in some kind of competition to see who could make the Count twitch the most. It was one of those unspoken games that they fell into sometimes. And right now, Maddy seemed to be winning. But Vincent couldn't say that he minded too much. After all, he was getting to see Maddy being snarky, which was something that very rarely happened. And he _always_ enjoyed it when it did.

"Yes," the Count growled. "But what you _don't_ know about is Dr. Goodman's retirement dinner, which the _entire_ hospital staff is required to attend."

"Do we have to dress up? Or can we go naked?" Vincent asked, not missing a beat.

"Friday night. Seven o'clock. Formal dress. You _will_ be there," The Count informed them, voice clipped.

"Will there be dancing too?" Madeline asked, her eyes nearly sparkling, and Vincent couldn't tell if it was mischief or her normal overly exuberant excitement.

"The people in charge of arranging the event didn't see fit to share that information with me," the Count said, rolling his eyes.

"So we have to dress up in fancy clothes, and in the end, all we might get out of it is mediocre food and boring speeches. Really, that was _just_ the way that I was hoping to spend a perfectly good Friday night," Vincent said dryly.

The Count shook his head. "You'll excuse me. Some of us actually do _work_ around here. You might think to do the same. After all, I _know_ that you have an operation to attend to and rounds to make, Dr. Harris. Good day." And with that, he was gone.

Vincent made a face, and groaned, leaning back in the chair. "Just five more minutes," he groaned.

"Come on, Vince. We might as well get back to it," Madeline said.

"All right. I'll join you in a minute or two. I want a cigarette first."

"No time. We have to do rounds, and then you have an operation in an hour, so you're going to have to start scrubbing up," Maddy said, getting up and pulling Vincent to his feet.

"Fine, fine. Some days, I wonder how you manage to be so damned perky, Maddy. And then I remind myself that I really don't want to know."

 

*~*~*

Vincent had been there for about three hours, and he was forced to admit one thing: the retirement dinner wasn't as bad as he thought it was going to be. It was worse. Which Vincent was fairly sure that they had to _try_ to achieve, especially since he was expecting a dry, dull affair in the first place. _Why_ they would want to make a retirement party so deadly dull, Vincent had no clue. Probably to ensure that Dr. Goodman didn't change his mind about leaving.

"When do we get to _eat_ , Vince?" Madeline groaned from beside him as yet another doctor who was older than them wandered away. He had felt the need to regale them with stories of Goodman's youth and tell them how _lucky_ they were to have worked with him, but he was gone now.

"Maybe never," Vincent said, taking a sip of his drink. "But if the food is as good as the booze, then when we do get to eat, you'll be in for a treat, Maddy."

"You act as if I'm not old enough to drink," she grumbled, before punching his arm in retaliation for the remark.

"You certainly don't _act_ like you are most of the time," Vincent teased.

"I don't know why I bothered asking you to be my date for this stupid thing in the first place," Maddy grumbled, still looking slightly put out.

"Because you knew I didn't have a date, and that I'd say yes?" Vincent offered. "Because I had to go too, and it was better to bring someone you already knew so you wouldn't have to suffer alone?"

She smiled at him then. "I guess there's that."

"Besides, Maddy, don't fret so much. If anything, you'll get to be entertained tonight. If only because if there is a pregnant woman here, she _will_ go into labor, and I'll be the one that has to help her deliver," Vincent said, making a face, and finishing his drink.

"What are you talking about? Are you sure you haven't had too much to drink, Vince?" Maddy asked, poking him at _that_ declaration.

"No, really. My internship year, and it happens a lot now too, but it was _constantly_ happening when I was both in med school and during my internship year. If there is a pregnant woman in the area, and she's anywhere near due, and I am in the general vicinity, she will go into labor. And it can't be in a normal place, like the hospital, oh no. We're talking the park, a plane, a construction lot, a cafe, and I think a church at one point. And that's not anywhere near all of them. So if there's a pregnant woman here, she'll go into labor. And I'll have to deliver. Just you watch."

Madeline started giggling, but she stopped when the Count's voice cut in and followed up that statement.

"Technically, since such things are _my_ specialty, I daresay that it would be _me_ who was helping her deliver the child," he said smoothly.

Vincent just groaned at the Count's arrival. Had he had a few less drinks in him, he might be more mature about the whole affair. Possibly. "What do you want?" he asked.

"It's good to see that my presence warrants such a _warm_ welcome," the Count said dryly.

"Well, you have caused nothing but trouble since you showed up," Vincent said, looking around for a waiter or something so that he could get himself another drink.

"Really, Dr. Harris. You exaggerate things terribly," the Count said, taking a sip of his own drink, and doing it in a way to make _sure_ Vincent saw him. Probably to show that _he_ was lucky enough to have booze.

"What am I supposedly exaggerating?" Vincent asked.

"Your claim of me causing nothing but trouble to begin with. And your outrageous claim about pregnant women going into labor when you walk into the room also is too ridiculous to be anything but an overexaggeration."

Vincent bristled at that, looking at Madeline to back him up. Or looking at where Madeline had been not two seconds before. Leave it to his ever-perky assistant to choose _now_ of all times as the time to beat a hasty retreat. Drawing a _long_ sigh, and knowing that he would _regret_ this later on, he turned his attention back to the Count.

"You _have_ caused me nothing but trouble. And you won't even let me explain why. As for the pregnant women going into labor, just watch. If there's one close enough here, she _will_ go into labor. It's some sort of cosmic law," Vincent said.

"Perhaps you just have that kind of effect on women," the Count said dryly, pointedly ignoring the first part of Vincent's grumblings.

"I'd rather I didn't," Vincent muttered.

"Perhaps I should make you back up such a claim," the Count teased. "I know that I saw at least _one_ pregnant woman in the room tonight."

Vincent shook his head. "That isn't how it works. My rather dubious ability to make women go into labor is like trying to get a toddler to do a certain cute thing they do on command. They'll do it all the time for kicks, but the one time you ask them to do it for the camera they won't. So you can't sic me on pregnant women and hope that they'll suddenly go into labor."

"Pity. I was hoping to have some entertainment tonight," the Count said, sighing dramatically.

"I would be the one being entertained," Vincent said, smirking now.

"Oh? And why is that?" the Count asked, arching the ever-eloquent eyebrow.

"Well, as you pointed out, such things are _your_ specialty. Which means that _you_ would get to deliver the child by default," Vincent said, sounding rather smug about the whole thing.

The Count simply made a face. "Don't remind me."

Vincent paused, considering the other doctor then. "I've watched a few of the procedures you've done. When I wasn't doing my own or sleeping. You're fast. And skilled," he admitted. "I just have one question."

"Which is?" the Count asked, looking at Vincent, slightly surprised at how quickly the tone of the conversation had turned. Vincent seemed to be almost _serious_ now.

"Why are you more interested in the children than the mothers?" Vincent asked point-blank.

"I hardly see how that has any connection to anything we've been talking about," the Count said, attempting to deflect the question.

"No, we were talking about delivering babies. This has a connection. When you asked me about Emma Jean out of the blue was a question that had no connection to anything else. But I answered it," Vincent said, stubbornly refusing to let the Count get out of answering another question so easily.

"Perhaps this is not a conversation that we should be having here," the Count said, after a few uncomfortable moments.

"There are _several_ conversations that we need to have that we shouldn't be having here," Vincent countered, before snatching a drink from the tray of a passing waiter, and taking a drink. "It doesn't change the fact that we need to have them."

"And why is that?" the Count asked, looking at Vincent curiously, before taking a sip of his own drink.

"Because, whether you care or not, I need to talk to you about Vesca Howell. And that fact is not going to go away," Vincent said, before downing the rest of his drink in one long gulp.

The Count, for a few very brief seconds, gave Vincent a look akin to a deer in the headlights at the mention of Howell's name. Then he schooled his features back into that damned false eternal calm. In fact, the only thing that really gave him away was how _quickly_ he finished his own drink. "Your desire to talk about that borders on obsession," he said after a pause that was just a bit too long.

"Considering the source, I'd say I know all about obsession," Vincent said, shaking his head.

"Will it end this fool's crusade of yours?" the Count mused. He had the feeling that this was a bad idea. But he squashed it with the aid of getting drinks for both himself and Vincent from a passing waiter, and using alcohol to drown it.

"I don't know. It might," Vincent said, shrugging.

"It might," the Count repeated skeptically.

"You haven't let me talk about it before now. And like you said, we probably shouldn't be talking about it here. Maybe if I get some answers, then yeah. Maybe it will end it. But you're the only one that can give me those," Vincent said, meeting the Count's eyes unflinchingly.

"You act as if I have the answers that you so desperately seek," the Count said, trying once more to dance out of this.

"You might. Just... come home with me. We can talk," Vincent said. "You can say hello to Charon. She was rather miffed that you didn't at least say hello to her before."

The Count sighed, considering Vincent for a few long moments. "I must be insane," he murmured. "But if it will get you to let this ridiculous idea of yours _go_ , then I suppose I've no choice but to agree."

"To insanity then," Vincent said, raising his glass in a mock-toast, before drinking it all down.

"To insanity," the Count murmured, before doing the same himself.

 

*~*~*

Vincent nearly tripped over Charon when he got in, as she was lying in wait for him near the door. Though she let out a rather annoyed meow, before darting over to the kitchen and perching herself on one of the counters when the door hit her as Vincent opened it.

"Hello to you too, pest," he said, smirking at her once he flicked on the lights and saw where she was sitting.

"You smell like alcohol," Charon said in greeting, wrinkling her nose. "And your father called. Twice. He left messages. Oh, and I see you brought the pretty god with no manners home with you again."

"Yeah, well there was nothing better to do than drink at the dinner, and I can always call the bastard back in the morning. And Charon, this is D. D, this is Charon. Play nice you two. I'm going to get changed into something a bit more comfortable," he said, before disappearing into the bedroom.

The Count, for his part, just stared after Vincent. Not because he was talking to his cat. A lot of people did that. No, he was staring because Vincent actually _understood_ what Charon was saying. And actually having a real conversation with her. Very few people were able to do that. And he just stared in the direction Vincent went, having a sinking feeling that there might be more to the man's ravings about Vesca Howell than he originally thought.

"You look like you just got hit with a board, pretty god," Charon said, smirking from her perch on the counter.

The Count turned his attention to the cat, who of course looked like a woman to him. "Can he see you as you really are?" the Count asked softly.

"Usually. He's always been able to. He can see things. Hear things. A lot of people think he's crazy," Charon said, shrugging.

"And what about you?" the Count asked.

Charon looked smug for a moment. "All humans are insane. Vincent's actually a bit better than most though."

"That's strange to hear, coming from a cat."

"Considering that Vincent has better manners than a nature god, I do think I'll put my stock in him," Charon said archly. "You didn't even say hello to me the last time he came home with you."

"I was a bit preoccupied the last time we met," the Count said, shaking his head.

Charon considered the Count for a few long moments, just staring at him, as if she was sizing him up. And perhaps that's exactly what she was doing, considering her intense scrutiny. Finally she scowled, perhaps not liking what she saw. Or perhaps not finding what she was looking for. "You had better not hurt him again," she warned.

"Again? What are you talking about?" the Count asked, arching an eyebrow.

"You aren't privy to his dreams," Charon said, glaring at the Count. "You don't know what he went through the last time. And it didn't even matter, because in the end, he died anyway."

"If you're referring to Mr. Howell, he isn't the only one who died the last time around," the Count said bitterly, making a face.

"Perhaps not. But Vincent won't chase you if you run," Charon said, before hopping off the counter, and flicking her tail, and wandering over to an open window. And with one last flick of her tail, she jumped from the window and out onto the fire escape, and then she was gone.

"Do I want to know what you said to get her in such a mood?" Vincent asked, reappearing in the kitchen just in time to see Charon go out the window.

"I thought that was her normal state of being," the Count said dryly.

"Not really. But if she tries to eat my toes in the morning, I'm blaming it on you," Vincent said, making a face.

"I will keep that in mind," the Count said, trying to look and sound as serious as he could.

Vincent snorted. "Seriously though, what did you say to get her in that kind of a mood?"

"It really is touching how protective you are of each other," the Count said dryly. "It's a shame that interspecies marriages aren't allowed in this country."

Vincent rolled his eyes. "Forget it."

"That's probably the best course of action, yes. Now... I believe you had something that you were insisting on talking about?" the Count prompted, wanting to get this over with so that he could _leave_.

"Yeah. I did. Come on. I'm going to want a cigarette if I have to get into this, and I have a feeling that you'll bitch and complain if I don't do it outside. So let's go talk on the balcony," Vincent said, leading the way before the Count could answer.

"What have I gotten myself into?" the Count murmured, before following Vincent out onto the balcony. He had a feeling that he was about to find out.


	5. Chapter 5

Vincent lit a cigarette once they were out on the balcony, drawing in a long drag, and ignoring the Count's exaggerated coughing when he exhaled the smoke. Seconds ticked into minutes and after two cigarettes the Count had had enough.

"Do you intend to talk about Mr. Howell tonight, Dr. Harris? Or were you planning on having me watch you give yourself lung cancer?" he asked acidly.

Vincent snorted, drawing the light jacket he'd worn out onto the balcony a little closer. "Better way to go than being eaten by animals," he muttered. "Slower and less painful. At least until the end when it gets really advanced and you start coughing up blood and shit all the time."

The Count arched an eyebrow at _that_. "You speak from experience?" he asked.

"On which one? The getting eaten by animals, or the coughing up blood?"

"Either. Both," the Count said, watching Vincent with renewed interest.

"I'm a surgeon. I've seen more than one patient in the final stages of terminal lung cancer. Like... _really bad_ terminal lung cancer," Vincent said, looking at his hands. "And Howell got eaten by animals. Attacked, eaten, whatever. It's how he died. They went after him after the blonde... the cop... after he shot you in the head."

The Count looked startled. Vincent didn't notice the look. He was looking at his hands. And he finally shook his head before pulling out and lighting another cigarette. His hands were shaking slightly, but only slightly. You would have had to be looking at them to notice it.

"Why do you talk about Agent Howell like he's a separate person?" Count D asked quietly after Vincent was halfway through his new cigarette.

"Because he is. I might have his memories, but they're fragments. Hardly the whole thing. I'm not in the FBI or CIA or whatever he was in. I'm not crazy enough to go chasing you down over the entire damn world, only to have both of us die in the end. It was a waste. A senseless, pointless waste. I have too many people counting on me here," Vincent said, shaking his head.

"Then why did you wish to discuss him?" the Count asked.

"Because if I got saddled with his memories, his baggage, I want to know _why_. And even if I can't find that out... well... you and he had one of the most fucked up relationships I've ever seen. You were close, yeah, but by the end, the passion was fuelled more by hate than by love. I think. Hell, I'm not sure. You were _both_ insane," Vincent said, finishing his cigarette and dropping the remains of it off the balcony.

"Perhaps we deserved each other," the Count said bitterly. "But as you pointed out, you are _not_ Agent Howell, so I don't see why my relationship with him is any concern of yours. Especially since you seem to have your own social commentary on what it was like."

"It's my concern because I've been dreaming of you on and off since I was fifteen. And that's not going to stop. The fragments have been becoming clearer and more coherent since I actually _met_ you. And then it just gets even _more_ fucking confusing, because you're different too!" Vincent yelled, not caring how many of the neighbors heard them.

"What are you talking about?" D countered, his voice rising a little as Vincent's did. It was so frighteningly _easy_ to fall back into the old behavior patterns that he would get into with Vesca.

"The last time I saw you, you were trying to kill the entire fucking human race! Now you're working in a hospital! Talk about cognitive fucking dissonance!" Vincent growled. "Fuck, D, I don't even know what your game is this time! I've been trying to figure it out and I can't!"

The Count stilled. Vincent sounded more like Vesca now. Just the tone, the way he spoke of things. It was eerie. And the way he just _switched_ like that threw the Count's reason out the window. And then he was shrieking, yelling at Vesca the way he'd never gotten a chance to the last time they were both alive and in the same room together.

"You weren't the only one that died the last time, Agent Howell! Are you _happy_?! Things change, people change! And I have _no_ interest in dying a second time!"

"I know you fucking changed!" Vincent growled, ignoring what the Count called him for the moment. The memory fragments were coming fast now, clashing like thunder, making him dizzy as they tried to connect. And in the end, they _still_ weren't making any sense. "You aren't trying to kill everyone this time! I don't know _what_ the fuck you're doing in a hospital of all places, in _my_ hospital, but you aren't killing people! And God knows, you've had enough chance! You work with kids!"

"How _observant_ of you, Vesca! What's your next trick?! To tell me that the sky is blue?!" the Count yelled.

Vincent stilled, quieted, reaching out an arm to steady himself on the railing of the balcony. He closed his eyes, taking a few slow, deep breaths. "I'm not Vesca Howell, D," he finally said. "I'm not going to fight with you the way he would. It never solved anything. You two would screech at each other, he'd get head trauma, and in the end you _both_ ended up dead. What's the point in going through it all again?"

"What's the point? What's the _point_?! _You_ are the one who started this in the first place!" D yelled.

"I thought I could get answers," Vincent said, shaking his head. "I was wrong."

The Count blinked at that admission, and he stared at Vincent for a few moments, not saying anything. Not really able to find the words. And when he did find words, they were quieter.

"You are not Vesca."

"Good of you to notice," Vincent said, making a bit of a face. He reached for his pocket where his pack of cigarettes was, only to find them empty. He swore softly, before looking up at the sky. "So what made you realize it?"

"He _never_ admitted that he was wrong. About anything," the Count said, shaking his head.

"Fucking stupid stance to take towards anything," Vincent muttered. "You should apologize when you fuck up. You end up with less bruises that way." And from the sound of it, he spoke from experience on that point.

"Perhaps if you realized that the _last_ time, neither of us would have died," the Count said bitterly.

Vincent looked at the Count sideways before looking out at the view from the balcony again. "You know, D, I'd be perfectly happy to throw you off the balcony, but it's not worth the time, effort, or consequences that it would take," he said, rather conversationally.

The kami blinked, more at Vincent's tone than his words. But before he could respond, Vincent had turned and started to speak again.

"Look, I'm not Vesca Howell, D. So you won't get your closure or whatever it is. And I won't follow you to the ends of the earth. And I won't be able to get the answers I want from you, mostly because I don't think you're able to give them to me."

"What an _inspiring_ sermon, Dr. Harris," the Count said dryly. "Is there a point to it?"

Vincent sighed, checking the urge to just toss D off the balcony _anyway_ , consequences be damned. It was getting harder with every passing minute though. "Look, D, all I'm fucking saying is that we _both_ went into this with assumptions. But neither of us is who we were." He turned to look at D then. "I'm not saying we have to be best friends or anything, but can we at least give it a fresh start?"

The Count fell silent for a few moments, as if contemplating that. Starting over. That's what Vincent was ultimately asking him to do. "I already started over once," he said, more to himself than to Vincent.

"Not with me," the young doctor countered. "You don't seem to be genocidal anymore, and I'm not a fucking insane federal agent hell-bent on tracking you down. Would it really hurt if we started again with each other? Without the misconceptions this time?"

The Count paused, seriously considering what Vincent was saying. Really, the young surgeon had him in quite the position. After all, while Vincent might not be Vesca Howell, he had the Agent's memories, which gave him knowledge about the kami. Rather... intimate knowledge depending on how _many_ of Vesca's memories Vincent had. And despite what the younger man said, the Count didn't exactly trust that Vincent wouldn't use that information for his own gain if need be.

"Perhaps it would be for the best if we were to start over," the Count said finally. _At least until I know what your intentions really are, Dr. Harris._

Vincent considered D for a few long moments. That pause might have been a bit too long. _He's plotting_ , a thought which was probably fuelled by Howell's memories informed him. Vincent nodded anyway, though whether it was in agreement with D or his own thoughts, not even he was sure. It could be either. Or even both.

"Shall we drink to it?" Vincent asked, grinning.

"I do think we've _both_ had enough alcohol for one evening, Dr. Harris," the Count said, shaking his head. "And I should probably go home soon anyway."

"And you're going to get there how? It's kind of late to catch a cab, and I'm still not sober enough to drive you anywhere," Vincent said, shaking his head. "You can stay here. Unless you're too dignified to sleep on the couch."

The Count looked at little surprised at the offer. "I do _not_ sleep on the couch," he said, trying to sound imperious. The effect was ruined by a yawn though.

"Well, I didn't think you'd want to be sharing my bed so soon," Vincent teased, smirking now.

The Count just scowled at Vincent at _that_ statement. "I do think I'll be seeing myself out, Dr. Harris," he said. "Good evening." And with a swish of silk and a rustle of movement, D was gone.

Vincent turned to stare bemusedly after him. "Note to self. See if an X-ray or CT scan of Dr. D reveals ovaries, as they would explain his mood swings quite well. Now I just need to find my tape recorder, so I can make sure I note that the next time I do dictation."

 

*~*~*

"Is giving yourself lung cancer your usual way of dealing with your problems, Dr. Harris?" D's voice came from behind him.

"Do I comment on your bad habits?" Vincent asked sourly, drawing his jacket closer around him.

It had grown colder in the last few weeks, as the fall had started to turn towards winter. And his arms were aching as a result. Not to mention that he was sleep deprived, he'd had a long messy surgery that morning, _and_ he still had six hours of his shift left.

"You're going to die of lung cancer before finishing your residency at this rate," the Count said critically.

"At least I'll be able to get some sleep then," Vincent countered darkly.

The Count blinked, and when he next spoke, his voice was a bit less sharp. "Did you lose a patient today?" he asked.

"No," Vincent said, shaking his head. "Not today."

"This shift?"

Vincent shook his head again. "The surgery I had this morning was messy."

"Messy? Isn't all surgery messy?" the Count pointed out.

"Yeah, but not like this," Vincent said as he took another long drag on his cigarette.

The Count stayed quiet, waiting for Vincent to continue. He'd gotten to know that statements like that were usually followed by some sort of near-unbelievable explanation when they came from Vincent Harris.

"The patient had a tumor in her uterus. We went to remove it," Vincent began, shifting a bit uncomfortably at the memory. "At least, that's what all the tests and data that we had showed."

The Count went very still. Suddenly, he was expecting the worst. And not sure that he _wanted_ to hear the rest of this story.

"We cut her open to get the tumor out. There _was_ a tumor in there but... D it looked like she was pregnant at some point. And the tumor had either merged with or was eating the fetus."

D had the good grace to look a bit ill at that thought, and when Vincent turned to face him, the kami saw that the young doctor did too.

"Needless to say, I probably utterly scandalized at least _one_ of my assistants with my _very_ colorful language," Vincent said dryly. How dirty his mouth got when he ran into a situation that was disgusting or novel was nothing short of legendary around the hospital. " _And_ I got to explain to the woman what had happened when she woke up."

"After that story, I can see why you smoke," the Count said after a few moments ticked by. He didn't really _want_ to know how the woman had taken the news. And asking why Vincent felt the need to tell her would have been an exercise in futility. He didn't understand Vincent. In fact, he was beginning to think he understood the young doctor even _less_ than he'd understood Vesca. "However, giving yourself lung cancer won't help matters."

"Lung cancer's a better way to die than getting eaten," Vincent said matter-of-factly and shrugged.

"Stop that," the Count snapped.

"Stop what?" Vincent asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Stop _doing_ that. You keep going on about how you aren't Mr. Howell, and then you reference his memories! It is very off-putting!" D growled.

Vincent looked about to respond, but a weak voice interrupted their conversation then.

"...help me..."

Vincent turned quickly, swearing softly under his breath. The Count followed his gaze, and his eyes widened. A woman was staggering towards them, her arms clutched over her stomach. Blood was seeping out around her arms, so clearly, the wound was either deeper than it seemed, or she wasn't applying enough pressure. Either way, she was potentially bleeding to death before their eyes.

"Please...h-h-h--"

She didn't even get to repeat her request before Vincent was moving. What happened then happened very fast. Vincent ran towards the woman, tearing off his jacket as he did. He got to the woman a few steps later, catching her before she could fall and quickly working on making his jacket into a tourniquet for her wound, which was, he noticed with some dismay, deeper than he would have liked. "D! Go get me some backup!" he growled.

There was no response, and Vincent turned to see why. He was annoyed to see the Count just standing there and _staring_ at him. "D! What the fuck are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?! Stop standing there like a fucking deer in the goddamned headlights and get me some fucking backup!" Vincent growled.

The Count, for the time being, remained unmoving. He was more occupied with the scars that _covered_ Vincent's arms. Scars that were now exposed since the cynical young doctor had taken off his jacket. He realized, wonderingly, that in the several months he'd known Vincent Harris, not once had he seen the man's bare arms. And with good reason. The scars that covered Vincent's arms were thick, numerous, and ugly looking. D honestly wasn't sure that he _wanted_ to know how Vincent had gotten them. And yet, at the same time, it seemed important for some reason.

" _D!_ This woman will die if you don't either get me some goddamned backup or some motherfucking surgical equipment right fucking now! I can't magically heal her! So if getting me backup is too fucking much for you to handle, then could you get me some fucking surgical equipment so I can sew her the hell up?!" Vincent demanded, his voice an angry growl.

The woman, meanwhile, was sobbing hysterically. And Vincent turned to her. "I need you to calm down, all right? We're going to stop the bleeding and patch you up, and I know it hurts, but I need you to try and calm down," he said to her, his gentle tone in direct contrast to the way he'd been yelling at D a scant few seconds before.

Somehow, that broke the spell. And D turned and hurried into the hospital to get the backup Vincent had asked for. He could ask the other man about the scars later, after all. For now, he had no real desire to taste Vincent's wrath.

 

*~*~*

The backup had finally been gotten, the surgery had been done, and the woman was currently sleeping and recovering. The details of the case were, as such cases often were, messy. The woman's name was Amy Taylor. She was 25 years old and eight weeks pregnant. She'd ended up with a knife getting run into her gut when she'd told her boyfriend and he'd been less than thrilled by the news. The baby, surprisingly, was fine. Ms. Taylor's muscles, abdominal wall, and intestines were still recovering, but Vincent was sure that they too would eventually be fine as well.

And now? Now Vincent was just taking the time to actually do his paperwork before going to do his rounds. He would be smoking a cigarette outside, but he really didn't think that he could handle another injured pregnant woman interrupting a smoke break.

"Dr. Harris?"

"D, can it wait?" Vincent asked, not even looking up at the voice.

"I think not."

Vincent sighed and looked up. "Talk. Fast. Because if I don't finish this before I go on my rounds, it won't get done, and then _I'll_ be the one that gets in trouble."

"Very well, I'll get straight to the point. How did you get the scars on your arms?" the Count asked.

Vincent sighed. "D, really, this isn't the best damn time for a story."

"Yes, well it's better now than out on the loading dock when you were trying to save Ms. Taylor's life," the Count pointed out.

"And what a _help_ you were then," Vincent said scathingly. "She could have died, you know. And then _you_ would be the one that had to talk to the review board for negligent care."

"But she didn't die. Neither did the child. Now how did you get the scars on your arms?"

"You aren't going to let this go, are you? Why is this so fucking important to you?" Vincent asked.

"You know, if you stopped insisting on knowing the reasons and just told the story, then it would be over with, and you could go back to your paperwork before you have to do your rounds," D said, as if such a thing should be obvious.

"Yeah, well if you're going to interrogate me, I'd like to know _why_ ," Vincent demanded.

"You didn't need to know why when I asked about Emma Jean, Dr. Harris."

Vincent sighed softly. "Fine. But the next time I ask you a question, I want you to answer it."

The Count didn't respond. He just looked at Vincent expectantly. The man would tell him, regardless of whether he answered or not. Or so he thought, anyway.

"I mean it," Vincent said, when D still hadn't answered him. "I want your word that you'll answer the next important question I ask you if I tell you this."

"And how do you define important in this case, Dr. Harris?" the kami asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Like... if I ask you a question about your past, or your reasoning. And I want an _honest_ answer, D," Vincent said, making that clear. After all, a lie would be no good to him.

"You're certainly asking for a lot tot ell me a story about scars, Dr. Harris," D said.

In all honesty, he had not expected this kind of argument. Vesca wouldn't have made silly demands like this. Or if it had demanded answers, he would have eventually gotten angry with D's lack of cooperation and started yelling and told the kami what he wanted to know. And then later on, he wouldn't remember any demands that he may have made before the argument. It was the lack of what would have been a typical Vesca Howell reaction that was throwing D off.

"It's important," Vincent said stubbornly. "Give me your word, or there's no story."

"You're being childish," D scoffed.

"Well then, I can be even more childish and not tell you," Vincent said, smirking.

"You are insufferable!" the Count growled.

"Congratulations on realizing what everyone else at this hospital has already figured out," Vincent said, a grin playing on his face before he turned his attentions back to his paperwork.

"Fine," D said after a few minutes, when no explanation of the scars was forthcoming. It irritated him that Vincent wouldn't tell him without this silly promise, but the fact that the scars for some reason seemed to be so _important_ irritated him even more.

"Hmmm?" Vincent murmured, not looking up quite yet. Though D could _definitely_ hear the smug, pleased note in his voice.

"You... have my word," D said, grudgingly.

"Your word for what?" Vincent asked, looking up.

"That if you ask me a question--"

"An _important_ question," Vincent cut in.

"An _important_ question, using your inane definition of important. You have my word that I'll answer it if you tell me about the scars."

Vincent smiled triumphantly. And D wondered if seeing a look like that on the cynical young doctor's face was _why_ knowing about the scars had been so important. Then he dismissed the idea as being ridiculous. But he did have to admit that finding out about the scars _was_ important to him for some reason. He wouldn't have promised Vincent anything otherwise.

"I just hope that this story is worth the frustration you went through to get it," Vincent teased.

"It had better be," the Count grumbled.

"I was in med school," Vincent began, looking at his arms consideringly as he talked. "I probably hadn't slept in about 48 hours. I didn't sleep much in med school. Working 3 jobs to pay the bills didn't really allow it."

"It's amazing you got through medical school at all," the Count murmured.

"I'm still not sure how I managed it. Anyway, I was walking back to my place from one of my jobs, past a construction site. I didn't really even notice the place til that day, but then, no one had been screaming bloody murder in there before. So me, being the brilliant and extraordinarily sleep deprived doctor-in-training that I was, I decided to go marching boldly into the situation to save the day."

"Something tells me you would have gone charging in regardless," D said. "You don't really seem to be able to resist damsels in distress, Dr. Harris."

"Why should you leave people in trouble if _you_ can _help them_?" Vincent countered.

"You really aren't what I expected," D murmured after a few moments.

Vincent just shrugged, before continuing the story. He could ask D what he'd been expecting later. "As I got closer, the screams got louder. and I saw that there was a group of men all grouped around a certain areas. One of whom was more frantic than the others. In fact, his reaction was probably a lot fucking closer to panic than anything else. When I got close enough to what the men were crowded around, where the screaming was coming from, I stopped for a minute. And wondered if the sleep deprivation had really gotten bad enough for me to start hallucinating."

"Hallucinating?" D repeated, feeling like he'd lost the thread of the conversation somewhere.

"The screaming was coming from a little girl. She was trapped in a mess of barbed wire. The really panicky man was her father." Vincent's voice had gone oddly flat, if only because he was trying to keep emotion out of it. But his eyes... his eyes were lost in the memories.

D, however, had enough emotion in his voice for both of them. "What kind of irresponsible parent lets their child get into a situation like that?!"

"She was three, D. He didn't have anyone else to watch her. It was one of those situations where everyone thought someone else was keeping an eye on her. That kind of shit happens," Vincent said, slightly surprised at that reaction, coming from D of all people.

"It's too much to ask for humans to worry about this world. They can't even worry about each other," D muttered in Chinese.

Vincent heard him, and what's more, _understood_ him, but he didn't comment. He simply filed the information away for later and then decided to finish the story. After all, he couldn't call in that promise he'd gotten out of D if he hadn't fulfilled his end of the agreement.

"I couldn't just leave her there," Vincent continued after a moment. "So I told the men to back off a bit and let me work. I reached into the barbed wire, with the crowd of men yelling suggestions as to how best to get her out. It was chaos. Sheer, utter chaos. Cause the little girl was screaming her head off, and she wanted her Daddy."

"And?" the Count asked, annoyed that Vincent had stopped.

"The little girl ended up mostly fine. Just a lot of superficial scratches and shit. I ended up with aching, bloody arms, and probably having taught that little girl way more curse words than she ever cared to know," Vincent said, smiling slightly. "I don't really remember getting her out. I was so exhausted by that point, I'm amazed I managed it. I think I passed out from the blood loss once I got her free. Thankfully, while I was working on getting her out, someone _finally_ remembered that they could call the paramedics. Though I think in the end that I needed them more than the little girl did." That smile was still playing across his face. "Her name was Annamaria. She made me a get-well card and promised that she'd marry me when she grew up. She still sends me a card around Christmas every year. She'd be... shit... eight now. I think."

The Count was staring at Vincent by the end of the story. Perhaps it had been worth that promise after all. Because it finally made the Count realize, _really_ realize, that despite the similarities, Vincent Harris was _not_ Vesca Howell. He might have the man's memories, resemble him physically, and have the man's fondness for vulgarity but he was not a carbon copy of the FBI agent. Vesca Howell would have never done that for the little girl. In fact, Vesca may well have just ignored the little one's screaming and just walked on by.

"You could have died of blood loss," D murmured, slightly in awe, still.

"But I didn't," Vincent said, shrugging.

"But you _could_ have. Or the child could have ended up hurt even worse. Or... do you have any _idea_ how insanely lucky you were?!" the kami asked, his voice having risen.

"I couldn't just walk by and do _nothing_ , D! She could have died! She was three fucking years old! Could _you_ have really left a child in a situation like that?!"

The Count was quiet for a few moments, before shaking his head. "You know, Dr. Harris, for all the little girls that you've played White Knight for, I'm surprised that you don't have an entire harem of them at your beck and call."

"Who's to say I don't?" Vincent teased.

"I would say that perhaps they should move you to pediatrics, but I daresay that pediatrics wouldn't survive. Those children would learn far too much profanity. Not to mention you'd have a small army of children following you around," D said, smiling slightly.

"I could use the help," Vincent said, snickering. "Then my minions could do my triple-shifts for me, and I could get some sleep."

"And reasons like that are exactly _why_ we can't move you to pediatrics," D said, shaking his head. Though he was still smiling faintly.

"Damn," Vincent said, snapping his fingers, as if it was a real loss.

"Perhaps I'll consider it. Though for the moment, I fear I've taken quite enough of your time. And you were saying something about having rounds to go on, weren't you?"

Vincent swore softly at the reminder. "Yeah. And I _still_ haven't finished the goddamned paperwork," he groaned.

"Don't worry about it, Dr. Harris. I'll make sure it's taken care of," D said. "You just go on your rounds."

And with that, he swept out of the room, leaving Vincent to stare bemusedly in his wake.

"I _really_ wish he would stop fucking doing that. He's doesn't have enough of the dark melodrama to act like Batman," Vincent remarked. Then he scowled a little at the papers on his desk and the clock on the wall. He _did_ have to go on his rounds. The paperwork would either just have to be taken care of later, or magically do itself. Because story time had taken up the rest of the time he'd had.

"Maybe I can ask D to do it for me, since it's his fault that I ran out of time," Vincent muttered as he got up. And he decided that he _definitely_ had time to catch up with D and demand that the other doctor do just that.


	6. Chapter 6

There was mistletoe in his office.

That was the first thing that Vincent noticed that morning. He sighed as he brushed the snow out of his hair. Winter had come a bit earlier than normal this year, and the snow, which generally waited until after Christmas, had come at the beginning of December. Getting to work on the bike this morning had been _interesting_ in the Chinese curse sense of the word. And now there was _mistletoe_.

"What the fuck is this?" Vincent groused, glaring at the mistletoe as he shrugged out of his coat.

"It's mistletoe, Vince," his assistant's ever-cheerful voice informed him.

Vincent turned, glaring at Madeline, who had materialized in the doorway.

"I _know_ that! Why is it in my _office_ , Maddy?" Vincent growled.

"It's called Holiday Cheer. You should get acquainted with it," Maddy teased.

"Who appointed you the goddamn sugar plum fairy, Maddy?" Vincent muttered.

" _Someone_ hasn't had their coffee or morning cancer stick yet," she countered, raising an eyebrow.

"It's the third of December. It's still too fucking early for this," Vincent protested.

"Which is why I haven't strung lights around your office or put a wreath on the door," Madeline countered, her voice sugary-sweet. "At least I waited until after Thanksgiving, Vincent!"

Vincent just groaned, before flopping down into his chair. Maybe if he ignored his assistant's perkiness, she would go away. Or at least, tone it down a few levels.

"Do the assistant thing and tell me what's on my schedule for today," Vincent demanded.

"Sheesh. Grumpy. Did Charon eat one of your toes or something today?" she asked, pressing on when she noticed the glare that Vincent was giving her. "Well, there's rounds to go on, you have a surgery at noon, and then you have a consultation at 3:45. And between rounds and the surgery, Dr. D has a patient that he wants you to take. So he wants to see you at nine for a case consult. He wouldn't tell me anything else about it," Maddy said, shrugging.

Vincent groaned. "I hope this doesn't have anything to do with D muttering about moving me to the pediatrics unit." Because, over the last few weeks, the joking about it from D had gotten a bit more of a serious tone.

"Maybe you'd be in a better mood if you got moved to pediatrics. No more surgery on old, witchy women," Maddy teased.

"I doubt it," Vincent muttered. "That's the problem with being one of the few general surgeons in the tri-city area, resident or not." He sighed. "Christ. I need caffeine and a nicotine fix to deal with your perkiness, Maddy."

"And so you don't scare your patients on your rounds," Madeline added.

Vincent sighed. It was going to be a _long_ day. And it was just getting started.

 

*~*~*

Five minutes after nine found him walking into D's office.

"You're late, Dr. Harris," the Count said, not looking up from the report he was studying.

"Yeah, well... there was an issue with one of my patients," Vincent said, shaking his head.

"An issue?" D asked, looking up and arching an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Vincent said. "I had to isolate her."

"Why?"

Vincent shifted a little. But if anyone would believe him, it was D. "She was sprouting."

"She was _what_?" D hissed, his eyes widening.

"Sprouting. As in, she had leaves coming out of her arms. Through her skin. We had to put her on some pretty high-level stuff to dull the pain. Then I isolated her."

D groaned. "I'll need to see her immediately. Why was she even in the hospital to begin with? You're a surgeon, not a general practitioner."

"Cancer. Tumors. At least that's what we thought they were. I'm still waiting for the tests to come back, but I think that they might be the source of the sprouting," Vincent said.

"You know, you're being very calm about all of this," D said, looking at Vincent sideways.

"That's because I did all my cursing and freaking out when dealing with the situation first hand. And then I had a cigarette. Besides, with all the weird shit I have memories of, this is almost tame by comparison," Vincent said, shrugging.

"A dryad," D murmured, more to himself than to Vincent. "How would a _dryad_ have gotten into a human city? They normally avoid them."

"No fucking clue, D. That kind of shit is more your department than mine," Vincent said, perhaps a bit too cheerfully.

 _How is he so **calm** about this?_ D marveled at Vincent's almost cavalier attitude towards the entire situation. After all, most doctors would _not_ be able to remain so damnably _calm_ while reporting that their patient was _sprouting_.

Finally, with a shake of his head, D got to his feet. "You might as well take me to this sprouting patient of yours. If she is a dryad, which is highly likely, I will need to look at her sooner rather than later," he said.

"And what are you going to do if she _is_ a dryad?" Vincent asked. "She is still _my_ patient, in case you've forgotten."

"Now is _not_ the proper time to be getting possessive of your patients, Dr. Harris."

"Yeah, well, it's my case, and I'd rather you not sweep her away."

The Count snorted softly. "I'm hardly a white knight here to sweep her off her feet, Dr. Harris."

Vincent eyed the Count for a few long moments, before nodding, and turning to walk out. He figured D would follow. He was right. The kami was hot on his heels.

When they got to the little girl's room, she looked a little sleepy, though that might have been because of the drugs. And she smiled at Vincent. Also, Vincent noticed, someone had added some sun lamps to the room and had trained them on the little one.

"Hi Dr. Harris," she said, smiling drowsily.

"Hi, Sarah. This is Dr. D. He's going to take a look at you, okay? And who brought in the lights for you?"

"Dr. Maddy did that. She said that if I was sprouting I would need light so that I could grow. She said something about putting Miracle-Gro in my IV, but I told her I didn't want her to do that, because Daddy says that Miracle-Gro is bad for plants," Sarah said, giggling a little.

"Have at, D," Vincent said, leaning against the wall.

"Miracle-Gro," the Count muttered, shaking his head. "There is something _very_ wrong with Madeline."

"You're preaching to the choir," Vincent said, smirking a little, though he was keeping an eye on Sarah and D.

"I like Dr. Maddy. She's nice," Sarah said, yawning a little. "Dr. D?"

"Yes, Sarah?" D said, as he looked over some read outs on the little girl's condition. She _seemed_ all right, however, he was still confused as to how a _dryad_ got into a city.

"Am I going to have rainbow fruit and leaves when I finish growing? That would be neat," Sarah said, watching the other doctor.

"What?" D asked, looking startled and looking at the little girl.

"I want to have rainbow fruit and leaves," Sarah repeated. "I'll be the prettiest tree ever."

"Of course you will," Vincent said, smiling a little.

D looked between the girl and Vincent, and was once again struck by two things. First, how good Vincent was with children, and second... how calm he was about the little girl that was indeed sprouting.

"Dr. Harris? When can I see my Mommy and Daddy again? They must be really worried about me," Sarah said, looking at Vincent appealingly. "And I miss them. And I want them to see the pretty leaves. They aren't that bad, except that they hurt coming out."

"I don't think that's a good idea," D said.

"And your opinion has been noted and overruled. Sarah is still _my_ patient. And her parents should know about this. After all, I don't think we can cut those leaves off, and I don't think we _should_ even if it were possible. Her parents are just going to have to learn how to deal with it, the way that Sarah is going to."

Vincent was staring D down perhaps a little. And Sarah was watching with interest. Well, as much interest as a sleepy nine-year-old who was on rather strong pain killers could muster. She was trying to fight the drowsiness, and losing.

"Please, Dr. D," Sarah murmured. "Mommy and Daddy won't mind."

D looked between Vincent and Sarah. "This is insanity. At least let me _examine_ her before you go charging to get her parents. I would like to have something to _tell_ them, after all."

"Of _course_ you can, D," Vincent said, a bit _too_ sweetly. "And while you do _that_ , I'll go check on the blood work I ordered and get her parents and brief them on the situation before I bring them in."

"And _what_ exactly will you tell them?" D asked sharply.

"That their little girl is sprouting, and that they are going to work with Sarah, and us, to figure out how best to deal with that."

D stared at Vincent for a few moments. He'd never expected such blunt honesty from the doctor. Or, perhaps, it was that he never would have _gotten_ such honesty from Vesca. Because, despite Vincent's rather limited understanding of what Sarah was, that honesty was there, and surprisingly refreshing.

"And since there don't seem to be any more objections, I'm going to fetch Sarah's parents and check on that blood work," Vincent said. And before D could raise any further protest, the young surgeon swept out of the room.

 

*~*~*

Vincent sighed before shutting the file he had on Sarah. Blood work hadn't shown much, but the tests had proved that the so-called "tumors" were neither cancerous, nor were they tumors. They _were_ the source of the sprouting, and to remove them would kill the child. So obviously, excising them was out. Vincent had never really been a believer in the whole "the treatment was a success, but unfortunately, the patient didn't survive" point of view.

Of course, the girl's parents had been less than pleased. The mother had been more relieved that her little girl was going to survive than anything else. Sarah's father had been loudly demanding to know _how_ his daughter was supposed to lead a normal life with leaves growing out of her arms. He'd gotten to the point in his tirade where he was starting to rant about cutting them off when Sarah burst into tears. That had shut him up quickly. Especially when Sarah started holding her arms and talking about how she didn't want them cut off.

Though even D admitted that pruning would be necessary as she grew older. When Sarah'd asked what pruning was, Vincent explained that it was kind of like getting a haircut for plants: you had to cut off the dead bits so that the plant could get bigger and prettier. Sarah had calmed down considerably after that, and the situation had quickly followed.

Of course, not all of this had gotten written down in the records. Vincent had left a lot out. Hell, even in the driest medical terms imaginable, Sarah’s condition _still_ wasn't anything that could be found in even the most obscure medical book, let alone the ICD. And to make matters even more fun, he and D had argued over what was going to go in the report, or even if there would _be_ a report. Vincent pointed out that _something_ would have to be submitted to insurance, since Sarah's family couldn't pay for the hospital otherwise.

Speaking of D... Vincent _really_ needed to go looking for him to make sure that the kami wasn't messing with any _more_ of his patients. So, setting the file aside, Vincent went to do just that.

As he headed out looking for D, Vincent pondered over _what_ exactly was going on. After all, D was interested in his patients (and Vincent's, which was really damned annoying), but not the way a normal doctor would be. He always seemed to care more about the babies he worked with than their mothers, but even then, he seemed to lose interest in the children within twenty-four hours. He didn't let himself get attached to patients, even the patients who really _needed_ someone to get attached to them in Vincent's opinion. And there were a _lot_ of those at St. Rita's.

Or maybe Vincent just cared too much. People had accused him of that before. They told him if he didn't care so much about his patients, if he didn't get so attached, then he wouldn't take it so hard when he lost them. Vincent thought the people who told him that were full of shit. Of course, trying to figure out D's motivations always brought up the same question again and again: why _was_ D working in a hospital anyway? Especially since he was helping the very people that he was, at one point, trying to completely wipe out. It was a big step from genocide to healing people after all. And Vincent was still trying to figure out the disconnect between destroying life and fostering it, at least on D's part.

He supposed he could always cash in on that promise he pulled from D, but he wanted to save that for something important. After all, one shot was all he was going to get. He wasn't stupid enough to think that he could get more than one straight answer out of the kami with the promise he'd gotten from D. After all, he had a feeling that D was enough of a stickler to focus in on the "next time I ask you _a_ question" part and therefore refuse to answer more than one. Hell, Vincent was surprised he'd managed to get that much out of D in the first place.

Vincent finally came upon D in the neonatal ward with one of the babies. Well, D wasn't messing with any of _his_ patients at least. Rather... the other doctor was doing... what the hell _was_ D up to anyway? That really was the question of the hour. And Vincent didn't say anything in favor of watching.

D was doing something with a newborn that had to have been delivered less than an hour ago. "Don't worry little one, this won't hurt a bit," D cooed at the baby. The baby simply stared at D before bursting into tears.

 _Brilliant, D,_ Vincent thought, rolling his eyes. _Make the kid scream and possibly scar him for life. **Great** idea._ Really, though, what _was_ D doing? Currently, it looked like he was singing to the little one in Chinese and trying to calm it down.

Vincent was about to say something, but stopped himself. Interrupting now could be problematic. And he could lose the only chance he'd gotten so far to see what the hell D was up to. And really, so long as D didn't look like he was going to kill the kid, then there was no reason for him to intervene. Not yet, anyway.

The baby slowly calmed as D sang to it, and soon it had dozed off in the way only newborns and cats seemed to be able to do. Especially since Vincent had the feeling that the kid would be _screaming_ again in several minutes. These kinds of calms never lasted long. He'd delivered enough babies in his life to know that much.

When the baby had fallen asleep, D put it down on a blanket in one of the baby holders. (That was what Vincent had always thought of them as.) Vincent then watched as D, who was still humming to himself, walked over and pulled out two vials of... something, before he took out a syringe. He drew liquid first from one vial, then the other, before walking over and injecting the baby with it.

The child, of course, woke up and began screaming again.

"Hush little one. Everything will be all right," D murmured as he tried to soothe the child.

Now, Vincent was no obstetrician, but he knew that children that young didn't get vaccinated, or injected, or whatever the fuck it was that D had just done. And he made a mental note to observe D carefully for awhile. Also he made a mental note to check the charts of the babies D delivered, both in the recent past, and over the next few weeks. After all, he doubted that these injections were getting put on the babies' charts. And if that were the case... well, it would be better to figure out _what_ the hell was going on before telling anyone about it. After all, while the ethics board would probably be _quite_ interested in what would probably turn out to be dozens (at least) of undocumented injections, it there was no need to jump the gun.

 _After all_ , Vincent thought as he started walking away (though not before getting the name of the baby that D was injecting, so he could check the chart later), _we might as well see what the fuck is going on before figuring out what the hell to do about it. No sense going into things half-cocked. It's safer that way. And less head trauma for all involved._

After all, he wasn't Vesca Howell. And if memory served, going into things half cocked was how the agent had gotten a suitcase smashed into his head. And Vincent, unlike Howell, _needed_ his medical school. Besides... no use getting in trouble with the wrong people if there was nothing to get in trouble over. And sometimes, watching and waiting was more productive than flying off the handle half-cocked. Vincent had learned _that_ from experience if nothing else.


	7. Chapter 7

"So tell me again. _Why_ are you working tonight, Maddy? I should think you'd be at home with milk and cookies, waiting for Santa to come."

It was 11 pm, Christmas Eve. And try as he might, Vincent was having a hard time holding back from teasing the self-appointed sugar plum fairy of St. Rita's. Especially since she'd put mistletoe in his office. They were currently in the break room, enjoying a bit of downtime between rounds and emergency surgeries. Especially since Vincent had asked to work the ER tonight.

"I told you, that's your fault. _You're_ the grinch that doesn't take Christmas off. And since I'm your assistant, they wanted me to work the same shifts that you do," Madeline said, a little glumly. Unlike Vincent, she _liked_ Christmas, _and_ she had family to spend it with.

It was kind of scary to see Madeline without her normal ever-present perkiness, and it drew a soft sigh from Vincent. "You don't have to work _all_ of my shifts with me. It might help if you got to know some of the other doctors. I'll look into it for you. Promise. It can be your Christmas present. Besides, it isn't like you have to work tomorrow. I made sure of that already."

Maddy sighed. "That hardly helps me _tonight_. But thanks, Vince," she said, offering him a smile. "Why _do_ you always work on Christmas anyway? They say you've been doing it since you started here."

Vincent was quiet for a few moments, and he fidgeted with his St. Christopher's medal as he thought of how to answer her. There were a _lot_ of reasons he didn't like Christmas and worked it every year. So many reasons, and almost all of them were related to his father. "I do it because I don't have anywhere else to go on Christmas," he said finally.

Madeline paused. For all she and Vincent were friends, there was still very little that she actually knew about Vincent's family aside from the fact that he didn't talk about his father very nicely. But a remark like that caused to ask the question anyway.

"What about your dad's?"

Vincent snorted. "Maddy, please. I'd rather not talk about that son of a bitch on Christmas if it's all the same to you."

"It isn't! All I know is that you don't like him that much!"

Vincent growled a little bit. "Do you know what the best Christmas present I got growing up was, Maddy? That my asshole father would drink too much spiked eggnog and pass out before he could start hitting me."

"Vincent..." Madeline murmured.

"So you'll forgive me if I'd rather spend Christmas here than there," Vincent groused, pulling out his cigarettes. The only thing that kept him from lighting up was that they were still inside. "So what about you?" he asked after the silence had stretched on too long. "Why are you so down? Who do you have that you wanna be with tonight? A new boy?"

"No," Maddy said, swatting at him. "My family's not that bad," she said with a smile. "Not that it's a normal family, but--"

"Maddy, no family is ever normal. Trust me on that."

"Aw, Vinny, what kind of way is that to talk about your family?"

Vincent _froze_ upon hearing his father's ever-too-cheerful voice from the doorway. He turned slowly, hoping that it was a hallucination brought on from working too long. Unfortunately, he had no such luck, because in the doorway was his father, grinning. A few steps behind him was a flustered looking young nurse who looked about as dismayed as Vincent himself did.

"Dr. Harris, I _tried_ to stop him but--"

"It's all right, Mary," Vincent said, sighing softly. A cigarette was looking better and better. "I'll deal with him. You go get the bull nurse."

Mary nodded, before running off to get the aforementioned bull nurse. Tony scowled at his son, who was scowling right back at him. Madeline looked between the two of them, thinking about how alike the two of them looked right then. However, she kept her mouth shut for the time being. She was more interested in seeing how this played out. It was simply a shame that she didn't have popcorn.

As it was, it was Tony who finally broke the silence.

"It's Christmas Eve, Vinny. What the hell are you doing in the middle of St. fucking Elsewhere's?"

"My job," Vincent said, as if such a thing should be obvious.

"Working? On _Christmas_? What the _fuck_ are you talking about?! Come on, you and I are going to mass."

"What?!" Vincent demanded, feeling his eye twitch a little.

"Why do you think I came here? To wish you a merry Christmas? You need to get a bit of religion back," Tony continued, not paying any mind to Vincent's incredulity.

"Dad, you're drunk. Go home."

Not that Vincent was overly surprised at that fact. He was _more_ surprised that his father had made it to St. Rita's and hadn't passed out in the ER or out in the gutter or something.

"So I got into a bit of the holiday cheer. There's nothing wrong with that," Tony said, wagging his finger and grinning. He thought it made him look charming. In reality, it just made him look stupid.

"A _bit_ of the holiday cheer?" Vincent asked, snorting in disbelief. "I'm surprised we couldn't _smell_ you as you staggered down the goddamned hallway!"

"You will _not_ take the Lord's name in vain on Christmas!" Tony yelled, the cheerfulness gone for the time being.

"Look, my issue isn't with God, all right? It's with you coming into the middle of _my_ hospital on Christmas and _demanding_ that I'm going to mass with you! I'm working the ER shift. Which means I could have a surgery to do any fucking minute! I do _not_ have time to be dealing with your bullshit!"

Vincent's volume easily matched his father's. But it was a new voice that drowned them _both_ out.

"Dr. Harris! What on _earth_ is going on in here?! This is, in case you have _forgotten_ , a hospital. Emergency Ward or not." D was standing in the door, looking _very_ cross. And he had his arms crossed and was _glaring_ at the scene.

Tony whirled, staggering a little when he did. And he _stared_ at D for a few moments. "Vinny, why didn't you tell me that you worked with such a pretty lady?"

D twitched just a little. It wasn't the first time that he'd been mistaken for a female, and that wasn't what really bothered him. It was the disgusting... _familiarity_ that this loud, irritating man seemed to have with Vincent.

"Dr. Harris, are you well-acquainted with this... person who smells like he fell into a distillery?" the count asked. His voice was cool, clipped, and there was an acidic sarcasm in his voice.

"Unfortunately, this is my father. I don't like having to admit that I'm related to him," Vincent said. He could feel, literally _feel_ the headache starting to throb in his temples.

The Count was quiet for a moment, before shaking his head. "Apparently we've more in common than I thought," he murmured.

"Forgive my son. He has awful manners. Which is why he hasn't introduced us," Tony said, staggering over to D, and taking one of his hands, before kissing it exaggeratedly. It looked to Vincent as if his father was _drooling_ on the kami's hand. "I'm Tony Harris."

"The pleasure is _all_ yours, I assure you," the Count said, pulling his hand away, as if he'd been burned.

"Are my son's bad manners catching or something? The least you can do is tell me your name, beautiful," Tony said, looking bemusedly at where D's hand had been just a moment or two before.

"Dad, maybe you should just go the hell home," Vincent said, shaking his head.

"Not before I get this lovely lady's name," Tony protested, shaking his head. "And maybe a date." He dropped his voice to a stage whisper then, too drunk to realize that D would still be able to hear him. "I bet she's the easy type. She's probably a slut who's slept with everyone at the hospital."

D looked about ready to tear Tony Harris's eyes out. And he took a few steps forward, possibly to do just that, when Madeline finally decided to add her two cents to the discussion.

"You know, I think there may be a way to end this without anyone losing any limbs," she said helpfully.

D turned to glare at her, but the glare lost a bit of it's thunder when he saw how disgustingly _cheerful_ Vincent's assistant looked. As for Vincent, he swore softly when he saw that look on the younger woman's face.

"Out with it, Maddy. That look usually means you have mayhem brewing. No good ever comes of it," Vincent said, though he was smirking a little now. He figured that his Christmas present could be watching Madeline unleash her own special brand of destruction on his father.

"Mayhem? From a pretty thing like this?" Tony asked, his attention temporarily diverted from staring at D's non-existent breasts.

"Well," Madeline said, smiling sweetly. "He's _very_ drunk. And he _did_ come to a _hospital_ of all places. That has to count as _some_ kind of cry for help, doesn't it?"

The smirk that had been playing about Vincent's features started to turn into more of a grin. "So, what did you have in mind?"

"Well," Maddy said, as she wound her way towards the three men, "I'm _sure_ that we have enough room to put him in detox, don't you, gentlemen?" And as she asked the question, she tapped Tony on the nose.

"Detox?!" Tony asked, looking distinctly _less_ cheerful all of the sudden.

"Detox," Vincent said, almost in unison with D, as the two of them exchanged a nod.

Of course, that's about the time that Mary poked her head in, before being pushed aside by the bull nurse. The "bull nurse" had been working at the hospital since time out of mind, and was old, cranky, and built like a brick wall. She walked in, and glared at Tony Harris, before looking at Vincent.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"Ah, Florence, how nice of you to arrive. You came just in time," the Count said smoothly. "Mr. Harris here needs to be admitted and placed in detox immediately. I can think of no other person that would be better for the job of escorting him to a room than you."

Florence looked at Tony impassively, before snorting, and grabbing his arm. "This way, Mr. Harris," she said. And with that, she more or less dragged him out of the room, despite any and all protest.

 

*~*~*

It was 1:57 am, Christmas day, the next time that Vincent actually stopped and looked at the clock.

His father was still in detox, and would be for at least the next 24 hours. Detox on Christmas: it really was a better Christmas present for his father than Vincent could have ever thought up by himself. On one hand, it would keep the sorry bastard off the streets and more or less all right. But on the other, it meant that he would be in closer contact with his father than he would like on Christmas. At least he could stay away from the detox area if he wanted to, and wouldn't have to put up with the man's moaning and inevitable withdrawal symptoms.

Vincent sighed, closing one of the Christmas cards that he'd gotten from his patients. The one he'd been looking at was from Sarah, his little sprouting dryad. Inside the card, pressed, had been a flower. The message inside had wished him a Merry Christmas, and said that the flower had been the first one that she'd bloomed, and she wanted him to have it.

"At this rate, I'm going to have an entire harem of girls if all of them that are supposedly in love with me grow up and attempt to marry me," Vincent mused, smiling slightly at the thought.

"When one considers your rather dubious ability to make pregnant women go into labor, Dr. Harris, the thought of you with a harem is really quite disturbing."

That thought came from D, who was standing in the doorway.

"Don't you have anywhere better to be on Christmas day than tormenting me, D?" Vincent teased, grinning a little.

"After the disturbance your family members caused around here less than 4 hours ago? Not really. Besides, I just got out of an emergency delivery perhaps twenty minutes ago," D said. And the face that accompanied that statement made it _quite_ clear that D did not wish to discuss the matter any further.

"Yeah, I try to forget that I'm related to him. I don't need the reminder now that he's safely across the hospital and no longer my problem, thanks," Vincent said, making a face, before getting up and pouring himself a cup of coffee from the coffeepot he kept in the office just for nights such as these. "You want some?" he asked, looking over at D.

The kami paused, before nodding, and actually approaching Vincent's desk. "I suppose. Though I was under the impression that milk and cookies were more traditional this time of night on Christmas."

"Eh, maybe for a fat man who rides a sleigh. But caffeine trumps a sugar rush when you're pulling a double shift in the ER any day," Vincent said, snorting softly, and offering the second mug of coffee to D.

"With an attitude like that, someone is going to be getting coal in their stocking," D said, picking up his coffee and taking a sip.

Vincent snorted. "Coal would be preferable to dealing with my father."

"He is a rather beastly man, isn't he?" D asked.

Vincent sighed. "Look, I'm sorry you had to deal with that," he said. "I mean, _I_ try to avoid the man. I hate when other people have to deal with him."

"I, unfortunately, know how you feel quite a bit better than I would care to," D said, making a slight face.

"At least your father doesn't come tearing into the hospital to try and drag you places," Vincent grumbled.

D wrinkled his nose. "Dr. Harris, that was a mental image that I definitely did _not_ need."

"Merry Christmas, D," Vincent teased, grinning now.

"I'm beginning to think that even coal is too good for you," D groused. Though there was a slight smile playing across his features.

"Then what would _you_ give me for Christmas, D?" Vincent asked. And while he was grinning, his eyes were surprisingly serious.

"Hmph. What makes you think that I'd give you anything?" the Count asked, looking at Vincent challengingly.

"You must have _some_ reason for being here on Christmas at this time of night," Vincent said, as if it were obvious.

"And what do you think that I would _possibly_ have for _you_ , Dr. Harris?" D demanded, leaning over the desk to glare at Vincent.

"How bout a kiss?" Vincent asked, not missing a beat.

"A _what?!_ " D asked, looking like he'd just been hit by a board.

"Well... you are right up in my face under the mistletoe," Vincent said, with a triumphant note in his voice. And then, before D had a chance to protest, Vincent closed the distance between them and caught the kami in a kiss.

D mmphed a bit in surprise. But before he could protest, the kiss was over, and Vincent had pulled back. D sputtered a little bit, trying to get his bearings, and staring at Vincent with a mixture of shock and confusion on his face.

"What was _that_?!" the Count demanded, eyes wide, as he glared at Vincent.

"A kiss. Calm down. It's not like I bent you over my desk or anything," Vincent said, grinning happily.

"I'm aware of _what_ it was... but _why_ on earth would you want to kiss me?!" D asked, looking at Vincent like he had three heads.

"You're gorgeous," Vincent said, shrugging. "And it's Christmas, and there was mistletoe. You know, tradition and all of that."

D sighed, looking at Vincent, his eyes unreadable. And when he spoke next, his voice was quiet. And troubled. "I've been down this road before, Dr. Harris."

"Not with me," Vincent said stubbornly. "Besides, D, it was just a kiss. I didn't ask you to move in with me or anything."

"Yet," D murmured, shaking his head. Something was bothering him about that kiss. And he couldn't quite place what it was.

"What's really bothering you, D? After all, if you'd minded that much, you probably would have tried to scratch my eyes out," Vincent pointed out.

The Count looked a bit startled. He was _never_ so easy to read. And he looked at Vincent, for a few long moments, as if considering something. "I don't want you to attach any meaning to what I'm about to do, Dr. Harris," he said, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. And then, he walked around the desk, got into Vincent's personal space, and kissed the cynical young surgeon. Soundly.

Vincent made a surprised noise into the kiss. How the hell was he _not_ supposed to attach meaning to this. Especially when D was willingly kissing _him_ and currently trying to deepen it. Which Vincent let him do, even as he growled into the kiss a little, trailing his hands down the kami's back. As for D, he was surprised that Vincent ceded control of the kiss to him. And for a moment, despite the fact that Vincent tasted of some strange mix of nicotine and coffee, D let himself relax into it.

 _He doesn't kiss like Vesca,_ was the thought that flitted through D's mind, before he purred faintly into the kiss, his fingers twining in Vincent's short hair. And it was a few more minutes before he broke the kiss, pulling away and looking at Vincent. Who was now looking at D with a mixture of surprise and smugness on his face.

"Merry Christmas, Dr. Harris," the Count said, a small, pleased smile playing across his lips. And before Vincent had a chance to say _anything_ , he turned and walked out of his office.

 

*~*~*

It was December 30th, and Vincent felt like he hadn't slept in at least 3 days. He _knew_ that he'd probably been back to his apartment a grand total of one time in the last 72 hours. And he'd slept for maybe a couple of hours before his phone had rung, waking him. He might have ignored it too, if Charon hadn't decided to chomp down on his toes with greater-than-normal viciousness.

He'd just finished a surgery and was trying not to fall asleep while smoking. It was harder than one might think. Not to mention he had another pressing thing to do before he could curl up and attempt to get some sleep. He just had to stay awake long enough to find D.

"How many times must I tell you that smoking is a filthy habit?" D's voice came from behind him.

 _Well, speak of the devil..._ "Do you know _why_ cigarettes were invented, D?" Vincent asked, in response to D's comment.

"No, but I'm sure you'll tell me," the Count said, rolling his eyes.

"Cigarettes were invented by coffee drinkers so that they could stay up longer and drink more coffee," Vincent supplied.

"So what's your excuse, Dr. Harris?" D asked, smirking faintly.

"I'm a coffee drinker out of necessity," Vincent said with a grin.

"I don't see any coffee."

"That's beside the point, D," Vincent said. "Though I'm glad you're here. I have something to ask you and this saves me the trouble of trying to find you."

"Something to ask me?" D asked.

"Yeah. I got reservations for dinner tomorrow night, and I was wondering if you'd like to come along," Vincent asked, off-handedly.

"Dinner. On New Year's Eve. With you. That sounds suspiciously like a date, Dr. Harris," D teased.

"And what if it is?" Vincent asked, looking over his shoulder at the kami.

"Will there be dancing afterwards too, in order to make this date properly cliché?" D asked, though he was, surprisingly, smiling.

"Nah. Not unless you like clubbing," Vincent said with a grin. "I'm afraid that's the only time I go dancing."

"Clubbing is just a euphemism for having sex on a dance floor to a beat," D said, wrinkling his nose.

"And?" Vincent asked grinning. And then he laughed at the withering glare of doom D was giving him. "Okay, we'll give clubbing a miss I guess. But will you go with me to dinner?"

D considered it for a few long moments before answering. "Well, I don't currently have any plans for tomorrow. I suppose I could spend at least _part_ of the evening with you."

"Good. I'll pick you up at 7," Vincent said, flashing the Count a smile. "By the way... what have you been doing to the babies in the hospital?"

The way Vincent threw that question in there made it seem as if he was asking D what he thought about the weather as of late. But it was a question that for a split second made Count D go very _very_ still before responding.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Dr. Harris," he said, brushing off the question.

"I think you do," Vincent said. "I mean, giving newborns injections which don't go on their charts... for at least a month... well, I'm sure people would ask questions."

"It seems people are already asking questions if you're any thing to go by," the Count said dryly, though he was eyeing Vincent warily. And trying to push down the instinct to run. He needed to find out how much the young surgeon knew, and how much damage control he might have to do.

"I haven't told anyone about it yet, if that's what you're worried about. But it's been going on for at least a month. Possibly longer. Possibly since you've been here, I don't know. None of the charts of the babies you've delivered have mention of these injections. And generally, kids that young don't get vaccinations. But... the babies survive, so it's not anything lethal," Vincent said, considering it.

"What, exactly, are you driving at, Dr. Harris?" the Count asked coldly. "And if this is an attempt to blackmail me--"

"It's not," Vincent said, shaking his head. Then he tilted his head back and looked at the kami. "You remember that promise you made me. The promise to answer a question truthfully when I told you about my scars?"

D swore softly in Chinese. He remembered. He had been hoping that the young surgeon hadn't though. "Unfortunately, yes."

"Well, I'm calling it in," Vincent said, his eyes serious. "What are you injecting the babies with?"

For a few minutes, the Count was quiet. He was trying to figure out _how_ to get out of answering Vincent's question, quite honestly. He remembered that Vincent's definition of important had been if the question had been about his past or reasoning. So maybe... "You know... that doesn't really fit with what I promised you, Dr. Harris," he said. It was worth a try.

Really, it was, but Vincent wasn't buying it. "The last month has been your past," Vincent pointed out, grinning a little. "And I daresay injecting babies with something that doesn't kill them when at one point you wanted to commit genocide of the whole human race says something about your reasoning as well." Yes, he remembered how he had defined important as well.

The Count sighed. "I suppose it's something of a different tactic," he finally said.

"What do you mean?" Vincent asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Perhaps death changes your perception of things," the kami said quietly, before finally sitting down next to Vincent. "I realized that even if I did wipe out humanity, ultimately, it wouldn't fix anything. The damage that humans had done to the earth would still be there. It got me thinking." He was quiet, trying to figure out how much to tell the young surgeon. How much he could tell him and answer the question without revealing everything. Was there a way to do that?

"And what conclusion did you reach?" Vincent asked when the silence had gone on a few moments too long.

Perhaps there wasn't a way to avoid telling Vincent everything. Or at least everything about the injections. But... if the young doctor hadn't told anyone yet, then he still might not if he knew the reason.

"Humans hurt this planet because they can't see what they're doing to it. I thought that perhaps if I could open their eyes, if they could learn to _see_ things the way they really are, they might do something about it. They might change their actions and stop hurting the planet, the animals, everything. After meeting Leon Orcot and his brother... I realized that there were people who can see things the way they really are. I thought that if children grew up being able to see the true nature of things from a very young age, then they might be more careful about how they treat the world, about the choices they make. They might try to fix the damage," D explained, looking down at his hands.

Vincent was staring at him. "You still haven't answered the question," he said quietly.

"I'm a geneticist, remember?" D said, smiling, though there wasn't much humor in it. "I simply managed to target the gene, which is normally recessive by the way, that enables people to see things as they really are. The injections simply activate the gene."

Vincent was quiet for a few moments in the wake of that explanation. And then he smiled. "That's either completely brilliant or completely crazy," he said, something akin to awe in his voice.

"Nothing else has worked! This is the last thing I could think of," the Count said sadly. "And now... now you have the power to completely shut it down."

Vincent was quiet for a few long minutes. "I do, yeah. But what good would it do?" he asked, shrugging.

The Count stared at him like he had three heads. "What do you mean?"

"So I tell people. Number one, who's to say they'd believe me? Number two... it might be brilliant, or it might be crazy. Hell, it's probably both. But it's not _hurting_ the kids. They'll grow up being able to see and talk to animals. They'll think it's normal. For them at least."

"You're very accepting of this idea," the Count said, looking at Vincent sideways.

"I've been talking to animals and seeing them since I was five," he said, dropping his now-forgotten (and burnt out) cigarette to the ground. "At best, it'll work and maybe the world will end up a little less fucked up in the end. At worst, it won't, and nothing will change." Vincent shrugged.

"You never fail to surprise me, Dr. Harris," D admitted. "Every time I think I understand you, you do something I wasn't expecting."

"Trust me, the feeling's mutual, D," Vincent said, getting to his feet. "Now I have rounds to do, and a patient to check on before I go home and try to sleep. Thankfully, I'm going to be off duty for the next day or two. I think the bull nurse is going to try and exile me from the hospital if I don't get some _real_ sleep."

"Very well. I will see you tomorrow then?" the Count asked, watching Vincent.

"Yeah. I'll pick you up at 7," he said, flashing D a grin, before heading into the hospital. It looked like it was going to be a happy new year after all.


	8. Chapter 8

  
"Charon... get that," Vincent muttered into his pillow when the phone started ringing on New Year's Day.

He was hungover. The drinking last night had been _epic_. And he was fairly sure that he'd talked D into going clubbing with him after they'd both had a bit too much to drink. And now? Now the phone was still ringing. Or at least it was until there was an angry hiss of Chinese and a hand with long painted fingernails reached out, grabbed the phone, and _hurled_ it across the room.

It looked like D was hungover too. And trying to block out the light if the way his head was buried against Vincent's chest was any indication.

"D, I needed that cell phone," Vincent muttered.

"I'll get you another," the Count offered, making no effort to move.

That was about when it registered for Vincent's hungover brain that D had spent the night, and was curled up with him. And they were both naked. Which raised the inevitable question that always came up in situations like these: Namely had he and D had sex last night? It was an important question, and one he would like to be able to answer on his own. After all, if he had to ask D, the results would be catastrophic.

So what _had_ happened last night? That was the question that Vincent tried to answer as he tried to pull the memories from his hungover brain. He remembered picking D up and teasing him about his pretty dress. _No, not a dress,_ he corrected himself. _D called it a cheongsam._ Which still sounded to Vincent like something that should be on a Chinese food menu, maybe right under the eggrolls.

He hated how fucking tangential he could get when he was hungover. He remembered dinner, and then bits and pieces of clubbing. D pressed against him, and kissing, oh god, he couldn't forget the kissing. And then... an argument that was half Chinese, half English, and all breathless since they were having it between kisses on the way back to his place in the back seat of a cab. What came next was spotty. He remembered trailing his hands first over D's dress, then through his hair. _His hair was softer than the fabric_ , Vincent thought hazily. D's hair... he remembered that, and how it had fallen down around him almost like some kind of waterfall.

Hisses of Chinese, a tight heat around him, moaning... the air smelling hot and sticky... Oh yeah. They'd had sex last night. And Vincent didn't know about D but _he_ was certainly was too hungover to remember the details.

"Hell," he groaned, closing his eyes.

"That's a _remarkable_ assessment of the present situation, Dr. Harris," the Count grumbled. "I don't suppose you have anything more constructive to add, like water or aspirin or the like?"

"That would require moving. And with as hungover as I am if I moved, I'd probably throw up."

"How _very_ romantic," the Count sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Some of the effect was lost though, because he still had his head buried against Vincent's chest. "Do remind me never to agree to accompany you anywhere again, Dr. Harris."

Vincent would have replied, but the phone started merrily ringing from its place on the floor where it had landed after being hurled by D.

"Shit," Vincent groaned. "D, I should get that. It's probably the hospital," he said when D's grip on him tightened.

"They'll call back," the Count growled.

"And I'll lose my residency. No thanks," Vincent growled, and he got out of bed and stalked over to where the phone was, answering it _just_ before it stopped ringing.

"Harris."

"Happy New Year Vinny!" Tony caroled from the other end of the line.

Vincent groaned, Tony hitting the exact _wrong_ volume, and making his already-throbbing head hurt even more.

"What do you want, Dad?" Vincent asked, ignoring the withering glare of doom that the Count was giving him from the bed.

" _Someone_ sounds hungover!" Tony proclaimed cheerfully. "Out celebrating last night? Did you get lucky with that pretty lady you work with?"

"Pretty lady?" Vincent asked, not quite knowing what his father was talking about.

"You know, the one I met on Christmas Eve!"

"D? Dad, D's not--"

"Is she there?" Tony asked, eagerly.

Vincent sighed. D was there all right. And he looked about ready to come over and snatch the phone away.

"Dad, what is the _point_ of you calling?"

"Well, I figured you and I could have lunch together. So! You have about ten minutes to make yourself presentable, because I'm on my way over as we speak," Tony said, and Vincent could almost _hear_ the shit-eating grin in the older man's voice.

"Dad, that's really not a good--"

But then he was talking to a dead line, as Tony had hung up.

"Shit," Vincent said eloquently, before dropping the phone back onto the floor unceremoniously.

"I'm torn between asking what all that was about and steadfastly _not_ wanting to know," the Count said once Vincent had dropped the phone.

"My father's coming over for lunch in ten minutes," Vincent said. "The man doesn't realize that he's going to totally fucking ruin what was turning out to be a relatively good beginning to the new year.

The Count looked at Vincent sideways before a decidedly _evil_ smile slowly crept across his face.

"I'll handle it, Dr. Harris. I suggest _you_ should get dressed."

"And what about you?" Vincent demanded.

"I told you. I'll handle this. You should hurry. We only have 10 minutes, after all."

Vincent groaned. "Can't I just call the cops on the man for harassment or some shit like that?"

"In due time, Dr. Harris," D promised, flashing Vincent a smile. "Now get presentable."

Vincent scrambled around making himself presentable and trying not to think about D's diabolical plan to break his father's brain, whatever those details were. As it was, there was a knock on his door fifteen minutes later. His father was late, but Vincent wasn't going to quibble over five lousy minutes. Vincent got to the door a few seconds after D, who was, Vincent noted, still totally naked.

"D, what are you _doing_?!" Vincent hissed feeling something akin to panic rise up in him when he saw D's hand on the door knob.

"Simply scaring away unwelcome guests, Dr. Harris," the Count said as if it was obvious. And then he opened the door.

Tony Harris _gaped_ like a stranded fish when he saw a very naked, very _male_ D answer his son's door. Especially since D bore a striking resemblance to the "lady" that Tony had been hitting on on Christmas Eve. The stranded fish look didn't abate any when Vincent walked up behind D and the kami proceeded to wrap himself _around_ Vincent and started whispering the _dirtiest_ things in the young doctor's ear in Chinese.

"Hi Dad," Vincent said, trying to ignore D and finally breaking the very uncomfortable silence.

Tony opened and closed his mouth but it was still a few moments before any _sound_ came out and even longer before the sound turned into actual _words._

"Vinny, what the _fuck_ is going on here?!" Tony demanded.

"Um... D was about to make me breakfast in bed?" Vincent offered, ignoring D's murmuring something about chocolate sauce in Chinese against his neck.

"Christ, why didn't you tell me that she was a guy?!" Tony demanded, pointing at D.

"Well, you did seem quite happy with your delusions, Dad," Vincent said, grinning.

"Hell. We are _not_ talking about this right now. I'm leaving. You have fun with your freak show Chinese mail-order bride or whatever," he growled before stalking out.

"That went well," Vincent said, closing the door behind his father. "So... do we actually get to _try_ some of the things you were talking about?" he asked after a moment or two, looking at D sideways.

"You understand Chinese?" the Count asked, blinking in surprise.

"I understand a lot of languages," Vincent said, flashing D a winning smile.

"I do wish that you'd mentioned that before, Dr. Harris," D muttered.

"I think after last night we're on a first name basis."

"Whatever you say, Dr. Harris," D said, ignoring the eye roll he got from Vincent.

"Do you want me to lend you some clothes or are you going to lounge around my apartment naked all day? Not that I'd mind," Vincent said, leering at D a little mostly because he could.

"Do try not to get your hope too high, Dr. Harris. I'm going to take a shower. Clothes and breakfast would be appreciated," the Count said, before sweeping into the bathroom.

Vincent just shook his head, though he was smiling a little. Maybe this would turn out to be a happy new year after all.

 

*~*~*

For the next four months, it looked like Vincent was right about it being a happy new year. Life went on, much the way it always did, but in some ways, things could be said to be better than normal.

His father, for example, was having nothing to do with his "creepy gay son." Some people might have been hurt or upset by this, but it was fine with Vincent. It meant no more phone calls at stupid o'clock from his father to mock him about his choice of profession or to ask for money. It meant Tony wasn't showing up at his hospital and making a scene, before getting unceremoniously deposited in detox. But most of all, it meant that Vincent didn't have to _deal_ with his father. And it was one less headache he had to worry about on top of his already full schedule.

Vincent still seemed to be getting all the weird shit thrown at him at the hospital, on top of the normal shit. D had started hauling Vincent on his rounds of just-about-to-pop moms, in order to see if Vincent's ever-dubious talent to make pregnant women go into labor would work on them. D claimed that it saved the time and effort of inducing labor in a countless number of patients, but Vincent wasn't sure he believed that.

Then there was Vincent and D. Vincent noticed that they were getting closer. Maybe even serious, though the thought of it being serious was weird for Vincent. If he had to say what was _different_ about him and D, as opposed to some of the other people that he'd dated, it was in the little things.

For example, Vincent tried to learn to cook vegetarian food for D's sake. The endeavors almost always ended in disaster, and Vincent would throw out the attempts (for not even Charon would deign to go near them) and order them pizza. After the fifth or so time this happened, D started teasing Vincent about trying to fatten him up. Vincent just scowled, said that D could get off his ass and cook for them, and stalked out to the balcony to smoke. And they'd ended up having pizza anyway in the end.

It was things like D herding Vincent home, especially when the young surgeon was about to head into the 25th hour of a twenty-four hour shift. It meant Charon was happier with him and didn't try to eat his toes quite as much as she used to because he was home more. It meant that Vincent wasn't spending _days_ at the hospital. It meant that if they weren't working the same shift, that at least five days out of seven, D would be waiting for Vincent at his apartment. Vincent would usually still have to deal with getting dinner, but sometimes D would have taken care of that.

It was stupid shit, like D curling up on the couch with Vincent and snarking at the James bond movie (or any movie really) while Vincent watched it. But D would watch it too, even if he snarked through the entire thing. Or it was the fact that plants and fish tanks ended up in Vincent's apartment. And the stupid fights that would occur when Charon inevitably tried to eat the plants or fish, and Vincent just laughing and doing nothing to stop her. It was the fact that D was practically living with him, and Vincent feeling strange when D _wasn't_ around.

It wasn't even about the sex, though that was there, and it was rather good. It was more in little things, like the scowling D would do when Maddy would go on about how _cute_ Vincent and D were. Even if Vincent _did_ want to throttle his too-perky assistant sometimes.

For four months, things were fine. Winter edged into spring, and summer was quickly on its way. Things were peaceful, almost to the point of being a happily ever after (which Vincent didn't believe in; he thought they were nothing more than pretty lies). But then, one day in late May, all of that changed.

 

*~*~*

Vincent knew it was going to be a bad day from the moment he got to work. For starters, he was more sleep deprived than he had been recently. Though he had a feeling that that was because D had been surprisingly absent from the apartment for over five days. It wasn't _normal_ when compared to his behavior as of late. The kami had been relatively sparse around the hospital as well. Vincent had a nagging feeling that something bad was going to happen soon. He was trying to ignore it, if only because those kinds of feelings were usually right.

So, he was sleep deprived, his cat was hating him, he had the feeling that something bad was lurking just over the horizon, and to top it _all_ off, he was out of cigarettes. He'd just finished his last one before heading to work that morning, and he'd been running late, so he'd had no time to stop and get more. This was a _really_ bad day to end up being nicotine deprived, and with Vincent's luck, it was just going to get worse.

Worse, of course, began with his caseload. He had been assigned to operate on Mr. Janowski. Mr. Janowski was a man with Peyronie's disease, which was rare, and caused Vincent to groan as soon as he saw the file.

"How the hell did I get assigned a surgery like this?" he grumbled when Madeline came into his office, even as he slid the file across the desk for her.

"What's Peyronie's disease?" she asked, blinking. Then she started to giggle when she saw the case description. Vincent just shot her a dirty look.

"What are you, Maddy, twelve? Seriously, this is a job for a urologist or a plastic surgeon. Not me."

"Well, you're a general surgeon," Madeline said, grinning. "And that means they expect you to do a little bit of everything, Vince," she teased. "Including, it seems, fixing Mr. Janowski's problem. Though if it's any consolation, this is a method of last resort for him. Nothing else has worked."

Vincent just grumbled. "Christ. This is the kind of shit that drives me to smoke."

"So why don't you go have your morning cancer stick or something before going on your rounds? You seem grumpier than normal," Madeline said.

"Can't. I'm out of cigarettes. I smoked the last one this morning. And you _know_ the entire staff frowns upon me keeping extras around the hospital. And I was running late after I more or less slept through my alarm. Then I had to spend the time I _could_ have spent getting cigarettes doing things like trying to stitch up my toe after Charon bit me hard enough to almost take it _off_ ," Vincent growled. "I loathe my cat some days."

"Man, and D wasn't around to shoo you out of bed?" Maddy asked, looking slightly confused.

"D hasn't been around my place for nearly a week. I don't know what the fuck is going on with him. But my calls are going unanswered, and I've barely seen him around _here_ either. I don't know if I did something and pissed him off or what the fuck is up with him. I can't be too worried about it though. I have other shit to worry about, like this insane surgery, my psycho cat trying to eat me, _and_ my crazy old roommates from med school sending me letters," Vincent said, sighing softly.

"Letters?"

"Long story short, my old roommate wants to quit his job with the super-advanced medical organization he's working for, leave yuppyville, and come out here to work at chronically understaffed, chronically underfunded St. Rita's. I haven't answered his letter yet. I haven't had time," Vincent said, shaking his head. Really, some days he _hated_ getting mail from Derek Stiles.

"Why would he want to come here?" Madeline asked. "I mean, there are doctors who go out of their way to _avoid_ coming here."

"Who knows? I never understood him. I don't ever think that I fucking will," Vincent said, rolling his eyes.

Madeline was about to respond when one of the nurses from the ER, Jenny, came running into his office.

"Dr. Harris! A little girl just got brought into the ER by her mother. Both of them are a mess. And _both_ of them are asking for you by name," Jenny said, looking harried.

"What?" Vincent asked, getting up.

"She says you saw her before. That you helped her when she was sprouting, whatever that means," Jenny explained.

"Shit," Vincent swore. "Maddy, you go and see if you can get that surgery for Mr. Janowski either rescheduled or reassigned. Then you come meet me. I need to take care of this," he said, rushing down to the ER without giving Madeline a chance to argue.

He didn't stop til he got to Sarah and her mother. The little girl looked... wilted. Not at all as healthy as she looked the last time she was here. She was wearing a sleeveless top and most of the leaves and such were dried up and shriveled. Only a few still looked healthy.

"Dr. Harris..." Sarah sniffled.

"Sarah... what the hell happened?" Vincent asked, kneeling down in front of the girl.

"Her father wanted a second opinion. So... he took her to Columbia General," Sarah's mother supplied. "They removed one of the growths that they said were malignant tumors. And this happened." The older woman was sniffling too. "I didn't want him to. I tried to stop him. I just--"

"It's all right. I'll do everything I can for her," Vincent said, trying to sound reassuring. "I'm gonna have to get her admitted right away, and run a few tests. Nothing invasive though, I promise." He looked at the girl then, before brushing her hair out of her eyes. "I'm gonna do everything I can. I'll try and make you better. I promise, Sarah."

"Okay," she said, sniffling a little. "You can fix me, right? I'll even let Dr. Maddy put Miracle-Gro in my IV if it will help!" Sarah hugged him then, tightly, as if she was afraid of what would happen if she let him go.

"I'll do the very best I can," Vincent swore. _I won't let you die,_ he thought fiercely. _Not like Emma Jean. Not when you were perfectly healthy and those **idiots** at Columbia General fucked it all up._ He hugged her tightly then, before kissing her forehead. "I gotta get you admitted, Sarah. Just hold tight for a few moments, all right?"

"Okay," Sarah sniffled, before nodding.

Vincent got to his feet. Then he _stormed_ into the back of the ER barking orders.

"All right, there's a little girl in there. Her name's Sarah. I need her admitted, right fucking now, to the pediatric ICU. No questions asked, just do it! Her mother's with her, and she needs to come along too. If the little one's deadbeat bastard of a father shows up, call the police or security, and kick him the fuck out!" Vincent growled.

The ER staff got moving, used to this language from Vincent. And he stalked out towards the neonatal ward to try and find D. Because if anyone would know what the hell was going on with Sarah, it would be D. Hell, D would probably know what was going on with Sarah without any tests being done. And what could be done to save her.

Unfortunately, it wasn't D that Vincent found in his irritated quest towards the neonatal ward. It was the bull nurse.

"What are you doing, Harris?" the bull nurse demanded. "There are people trying to _rest_ and _recover_ around here."

"I know. Look, have you seen Dr. D?" he asked, not wanting to pick a fight with the perpetually cranky bull nurse. He didn't like picking fights he would lose. And she could probably beat him in a fight. It would suck.

For the first time since he'd known her, the bull nurse looked surprised. "You didn't hear?" she asked, her eyebrows raising.

"Hear what?" Vincent asked, not in the mood for guessing games.

"Dr. D turned in his resignation yesterday," the bull nurse said.

"No... I didn't hear," Vincent muttered, feeling like the floor had just been pulled out from under him. "Shit. Thanks," he said, shaking his head, before wandering off to check on Sarah's situation.

They were still in the process of getting her a bed. And Vincent figured that would take some more time, so he headed out towards the loading dock to smoke. Only to curse when he remembered that he was out of cigarettes. Which is where he was when Madeline found him, cursing up a blue streak.

"What's wrong?" she asked hesitantly. Usually Vincent only saved strings of invective like _that_ for particularly _bad_ situations.

"Do you want a fucking alphabetized list?" Vincent growled.

"Starting at the beginning's usually the best place to start," Maddy suggested.

"Let's see... I'm sleep deprived, my cat tried to eat me, I'm getting letters from my crazy college roommate, the fucking bastards at Columbia General may have killed Sarah, _and_ to top it _all_ off, D resigned. Which explains why he hasn't been around my place in the last week or so," Vincent growled, listing each point on his fingers. "Which means he's going to run or something."

He started to pace then, before hopping off the loading dock. "I need twenty minutes. Cover me?"

"Are you going to try and find D?" Maddy asked incredulously.

"What? Fuck no. I have to many other things to worry about to go chasing after him. Especially since I have no fucking clue where he decided to run off to," Vincent growled, shaking his head. "No, I'm going to go down to the 7-11 down the street and get some fucking cigarettes. It's the only way I'm going to be able to get through the rest of today."

He didn't give her a chance to respond before he stalked off towards the convenience store. His nagging feeling about something bad happening had come true. And if bad things came in threes, well between running out of cigarettes on a day like today, D leaving, and what happened to Sarah, he was done with his share of bad luck for at _least_ a year. Though with D gone, at least he could smoke in peace.

That thought, however, offered very little in the way of consolation. But it would have to do.


	9. Chapter 9

  
Madeline was worried. Vincent was talking to himself in Russian.

"Um... Vince?" Maddy asked, as she came up next to him.

"Yeah?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just tired," Vincent said, looking at her sideways. "Why?"

"You were talking to yourself."

"I do that a lot Maddy."

"In Russian?"

There was a pause, and Vincent made a face. "Shit. Must be more tired than I thought."

Madeline looked at him, arching an eyebrow. "This is normal then?"

"Not exactly. It just... happens when I'm really exhausted."

"When did you learn Russian?" Madeline asked.

"I didn't."

"Then why--"

"It's a long story, Maddy. Let's just say I'm not drunk enough to tell it. And with as tired as I am, by the time I got drunk enough to explain, I'd fall asleep."

 _Howell_ had taught himself Russian. Just in case he ever got captured by the KGB. Vincent had made a conscious effort to avoid learning the language. But when he was super exhausted (as he apparently was), he started talking to himself in Russian. It was a habit that Howell had, and one that carried over when exhaustion made the line between lives blur a little. And Vincent never really knew he was doing it until someone pointed it out. He'd ended up doing it in med school a lot. Mostly because he wasn't sleeping. Kind of like now.

Madeline, meanwhile, was frowning. "You know... you've been out of sorts for awhile. Since... well..." she shrugged. Ever since D left, those who knew about the whole situation had been doing their best to talk around it. And very loudly not mention it. Especially since mentioning it tended to make heads roll and Vincent growl at anyone who brought it up.

"So? It happens to us all. It's just the sleep deprivation, Maddy. It'll pass," Vincent said, waving off her concern. It always did. At least in his experience.

"You know, the director of surgery has been talking about changing the locks on you again, Vince," Madeline said, frowning.

"What do you mean?"

"He's worried about you. He says that you've been performing at less than your best. Vincent... take a few days off. For your sake. Everyone will understand. You need sleep."

Vincent shook his head. "I have patients who are worrying about me. There's Sarah, and I have three surgeries scheduled for tomorrow alone, and--"

"And if you fall asleep during surgery, you'll get sued for malpractice and lose your residency, and then you won't be able to help -anyone-!" Madeline snapped, cutting him off. "We can cover for you. It's only a few days. You need to rest. Desperately."

Vincent blinked. Madeline looked, and sounded... "You're worried about me."

"Yes I'm worried about you, you jerk! You're my friend! And if you lose your residency, you'll be even worse off than you are now! I'm just trying to help. But if you don't take a few days off voluntarily, you'll be barred from the hospital until you do!" Madeline explained.

"And if I try to come back after I've been barred?"

"If you haven't rested, and they don't say you're fit to return to work, you'll probably be fired," Madeline said, glaring at Vincent. "Is that what you want?"

"No," Vincent said, shaking his head. "But... all my patients--"

"Will be taken care of. I'll see to it myself. I'll even strong arm the bull nurse into helping. It's only for a few days, Vincent. Please?" Maddy asked, giving him puppy eyes.

Vincent sighed. The puppy eyes didn't work, but Madeline's logic was sound. "Fine. I should still go talk to the director of surgery. To let him know about this. Just disappearing will cause trouble too."

"Of course," Madeline said, grinning. "I'll walk you there myself. Besides, then he can tell you just how _long_ he's going to bar you from the hospital." And damn if she wasn't _whistling_ as she dragged him down the hall.

 

*~*~*

Vincent was going to be in _so_ much trouble if they caught him in the hospital. He wasn't supposed to be here, and the director of surgery might _actually_ go through with his threats of changing the locks if he was caught. But Sarah had been coming to the hospital for outpatient treatment for the last two months. She was getting neither better nor worse, but that wasn't good enough. He wanted to make her _better_.

Which was why he was locked in his office with the lights off and the windows open, doing research on the internet. The windows were open because he was breaking another rule: No smoking inside the hospital. But this was important. And he didn't have the internet at his apartment. Besides, if he got caught, he was going to be in trouble up to his ears, so he might as well make it really count. To top it all off, no medical journal would have information on Sarah's "condition" (he knew, he'd already checked Pub Med), he started at the next best place: Wikipedia.

His mind kept going back to something that D had said when Sarah had first come in. _"What is a Dryad doing in a city? They usually avoid them."_ It was with that in mind that Vincent had gone to work. And all the thought he would allow himself to spare on D with as pissed and hurt as he still was by _that_ particular situation.

First, Vincent had checked the only official source of information that was available to him: Sarah's medical records. And when he took a good look at "family medical history" section, he swore. Sarah was adopted. Not that this surprised Vincent much. No parent who was a Dryad as well would take the poor thing to Columbia fucking General like her so-called father had. Then he had turned to the internet for anything he could find on Dryads. Sources varied wildly, depending on which mythology you were looking at. "I almost fucking wish D was here," he muttered, running his hand through his hair. "At least he would have an idea on what the fuck to _do_ next. Being able to see and hear animals doesn't help worth a damn if you can't do anything to help kids like Sarah."

Vincent sighed, taking a drag on his cigarette, and blowing the smoke towards the window.

"Okay, so we know she's a Dryad. And even if she's not, that's our closest guess," Vincent said to himself. "A dryad dies if its tree dies," he muttered, looking at the computer screen for a minute. "Sarah's not dead, so her tree's still alive. If I could _find_ her tree, it might help her. But she's adopted, so her tree could be in motherfucking Timbuktu for all I know."

He got up and started to pace a little, still talking to himself as he did. And probably switching languages several times as he did it, but he wasn't really keeping track. He could follow himself, which meant he wasn't speaking in Russian. "From a medical standpoint, what Sarah is going through is kind of like the people who only have one kidney or one lung. They can live that way, they can survive, but generally, they aren't at 100%. If this happens when they are young enough, the body can compensate, the remaining organ taking over the function of the missing one, doing double duty as it was. And kids are generally are better able to do this than adults. Or you can go the transplant route. But since I doubt I can find someone to donate another goddamn plant... thing, not to mention I have no fucking clue if she would reject it and what the symptoms would be anyway, a transplant is out." He sighed, stalking over to the desk and flopping down into the chair again. "Shit."

That was about when he heard a key turn in the lock. Madeline walked in then and the two of them stared at each other for a few moments. Then, Maddy giggled. "You know, Vince, I didn't peg you as the type to violate your exile, just to sneak into your office to look at porn on the internet."

Vincent rolled his eyes. "Shut up, get in here, and close the goddamn door behind you," he growled. "And while I'm thinking about it, how the fuck did you get a key to my office anyway?"

Madeline did walk in and close the door behind her. "You gave me a copy when you were banished and told to rest, remember?"

"In other words, you stole my keys, and made a copy. Like you did with my apartment keys," he groused, before blowing smoke at her.

Madeline coughed, glaring. "What are you _doing_?" she asked. "You know you can't smoke in here!"

"Research," Vincent said. "And I figure if anyone else, aside from you, catches me here, I'm already in deep shit. Might as well _really_ be in deep shit."

His perky assistant walked around and looked over his shoulder, and snorted. "Wikipedia. That's almost as bad as porn. It certainly is as much of a time killer," she decided.

Vincent rolled his eyes. "I'm trying to help Sarah."

"I still say we could try to hook her up to an IV drip of Miracle-Gro," Maddy teased.

Vincent had been fidgeting with his St. Christopher's medal with his free hand. And he stopped, seeming to consider it. "Maybe not Miracle-Gro, but... if she really is a Dryad, a drip of minerals, and possibly some plant growth hormone might do wonders. It will help get her healthy and keep her that way with the resources her body currently has. And it will hopefully stimulate her cells to regrow the growth thing that the fuckers at Columbia General removed," he said thoughtfully, before finishing his cigarette. "Maddy, you're a genius."

Madeline smiled. "I try. Are you sure it will work?"

"Not a clue, but it's the best idea we've got, so we'll go with it. But you probably need to get back to whatever it is you were doing, and I need to sneak out of here without being caught," Vincent said. "I'll get the plant growth hormone during my enforced time off. It's still fucking stupid."

"Maybe you can help that friend of yours move in? Didn't you say he'd be getting to town this weekend?" Madeline asked.

"Let's not talk about Derek Stiles, Maddy," Vincent said with a groan. "He's already asked for my help. God knows why I agreed. I'm so fucking tired."

"Still?" she asked, frowning a little.

"Forcing someone to take time off doesn't mean they'll magically get better, Maddy," Vincent said, shaking his head. "It just means they'll be stuck at home and exhausted instead of at work and exhausted."

"Maybe you should take something to help you sleep?" she offered.

"It probably won't help."

"But it can't _hurt_ either," Madeline said with an air of finality. "I'll write you a prescription."

Vincent sighed, and just shook his head. He watched Madeline write a prescription on _his_ prescription pad a bit bemusedly. Trying to stop her was like trying to stop the tide. But sometimes, Vincent would admit, her disgustingly cheerful determination was what he needed. This was probably one of those sometimes.

 

*~*~*

Vincent was exhausted as he looked up at the building that Derek had said he had a place in. And he looked down at the slip in his hand. This was the place all right. Apartment 506. Of course, as soon as he entered the building, he unleashed a string of curses at the elevator, on which there was a sign that cheerfully proclaimed that it was out of order and that it was sorry for the inconvenience. "Fuck," he growled. "Guess I get to take the long way up. Leave it to Derek fucking Stiles to get a fifth floor walkup apartment with one of the only broken elevators in town. Aren't there regulations against shit like this?"

Vincent glared at the elevator once more before he started up the stairs to the apartment. He still wasn't sleeping very well. He hadn't been since D disappeared, despite his best efforts. The sleeping pills helped sometimes though. And it kept him from having to deal with talking to himself in Russian. The problem was with always being on call, he rarely had time to take the medicine that helped him sleep. Even if he could prescribe it for himself.

Finally, he got to the required floor and he knocked on the door. Why he had agreed to help Derek move in, he'd never know. Just like he'd never know _why_ he actually answered the questions that the bosses asked him about Derek in a helpful and positive manner. But he was here now, and so he might as well help. It would give him something to do at any rate. Especially since he was still barred from the hospital.

Derek, meanwhile, jumped at the chance to open the door since it meant he could procrastinate on shelving boxes and boxes of books for Angie while she got them food besides pizza and beer for the move-in.

"Vincent! Hi! You're a lifesaver."

"You better have coffee, Stiles," he growled, giving Derek the withering glare of doom. "Especially since you're fucking elevator is broken and I just had to walk five flights of stairs to help you put shit away."

"Yeah, I know the elevator is broken. Who do you think carried boxes and boxes of books up all five flights of stairs to put them in here? And since I have clearly thrown my back out, you wanna help me drink the beer instead?" Derek said hopefully.

"Beer is good," Vincent said. "Beer might make me fall asleep, and then you'll be back at square one though!" He had the good grace to sound vindictively cheerful when he said it too.

"Yeah, well, with the director of the surgical department threatening to change all your locks, it's probably not such a bad thing. You need a vacation about as much as I _don't_ ," Derek said, rolling his eyes.

"He barred me from the hospital. I'm technically 'on leave' for the next two days. At least," Vincent said, making a face, like he'd bitten into something sour.

"You should be on leave. You look like something Charon dragged in. What happened?" Derek asked. He hadn't seen Vincent look this bad since med school, and even then... this was bad compared to med school.

"I haven't been sleeping," Vincent muttered, before almost collapsing on the couch. He closed his eyes, sighing softly. "And I've been talking to myself in Russian again. You remember that, I'm sure. Throw in the caseload I've had and the whole... D mess... and yeah."

"D mess? That guy you used to dream about?" As Derek spoke, he went for the beer, pulling out two nicely chilled bottles and handing one to Vincent.

"Oh. No one's told you about the D mess," Vincent said, making a face, opening the bottle of beer, and taking a _long_ drink.

"I've kinda been hip-deep in my own drama lately," Derek said, making a face as he twisted the beer open. He didn't drink right away, just watched Vincent.

"Last September... we got a new head of the neonatal department and 'miracle-worker' according to some. Dr. D. The Count that I'd been dreaming about," Vincent said, taking another drink.

"I bet that just went peachy. Is he trying to explode humanity or something I should know about?" Derek asked.

Vincent knew that he had told Derek about D in med school a few times. Mostly because Derek had pressed him into it the nights that he would wake up from insomnia and pace around the room all night. Which, inevitably, woke Derek up. So Derek would get him to talk in the hopes that it would wear him out and help him sleep, rather than pacing like a chain smoking caged tiger all night.

"Nope. He was just injecting the kids at St. Rita's to make them the next generation of Dr. Doolittle or something. You know how I can see animals? I know I explained that to you once, right?" Vincent asked.

"You did. And I used to think it was freaky until I had that whole Asclepius thing going on," Derek said, nodding and taking a long pull of his beer.

"Yeah well... D was injecting the kids to let them see animals the way I do. Newborns. He figured... if they could grow up seeing things the way they really are... maybe they wouldn't hurt the planet so much," Vincent said, shaking his head. "It seemed... like it could work."

"If you can't beat them, make them join your side? Sounds reasonable, I guess."

"Something like that. I didn't tell anyone. He was worried I would. But it was my word against his. And I figured, if it wasn't hurting the kids, it wasn't all bad," Vincent said, shrugging. "At best, maybe it would make the world a little less fucked up. At worst... nothing would change."

Derek shrugged. "As far as I know practical eugenics is still all theoretical as far as board ethics, so I'm not going to weigh in. It beats trying to kill everyone, I guess."

"Yeah. Well... he and I got involved," Vincent said, finishing the beer, and setting the bottle aside. "And for four months, almost five... everything was as close to fine as it ever gets. Then he left. Without a word."

"Uh-huh," Derek said, drawing out the syllables thoughtfully. "You want another beer?"

"Nah. Not if you want me to help you actually unpack this shit today," Vincent said, shaking his head. "He turned in his resignation and everything. That was 2 months ago."

"And you're still a wreck over it? You've got it _bad_ my friend," Derek said. And Vincent was irritated to note that there was a hint of what sounded like sympathy in his voice.

"Got what bad? Things were _fine._ He was practically fucking _living_ with me Derek! And then he just ups and leaves without a goddamned word!" Vincent growled, getting up and starting to pace.

"And you're desperately, hopelessly in love with him," Derek said knowingly before he hid his grin in another pull of his beer.

"What the fuck do _you_ know about love, Wonderboy? You have Angie. I've never had a functional relationship in my entire life. And the one that comes closest ends through no fucking fault of mine!"

No... not functional. Well it was but... things had been serious. At least he thought so. And then... D had disappeared. Like smoke.

"So it takes one to know one. If you weren't still in love with him, you'd be able to sleep at night, I bet. I know I can't if Angie's not around."

"He wasn't living with me or anything," Vincent muttered. "It wasn't like it was serious. I mean... he was only over almost every night. And... shit."

Vincent swore. Derek might be right. But... no. He couldn't be in love with D. That would just fuck everything up. Even if he wasn't able to sleep. He _had_ to be sleep deprived if he was actually seriously thinking about this.

"Well yeah, so was Angie before we transferred to Japan. And then it was easier to just take an apartment together since then at least we could be Japanese-retarded together. It's how these things happen," Derek said, enjoying the chance to be the more worldly one for a moment.

"I can't have fallen for him," Vincent muttered. "I'm not Vesca Howell."

"Are you feeling any urges to quit your job and go running off all over the world after him?" Derek asked, arching an eyebrow.

"No. I have too damn much shit to do. Which is why it pisses me off so much that I've been barred from the hospital when I have _patients_ to care for," Vincent growled.

"Then you're obviously not Vesca Howell. I remember all your stories about how he blew his life chasing D."

"For over 20 years. There was no point to it," Vincent said, shaking his head. "And in the end, they both fucking died."

Derek shrugged and downed the last of his beer. "So let's recap. You're in love with D. But you're not Vesca Howell so you're not going to run after him. So you're just stuck dealing with it. And you'd better really try to deal with it or the big boss is going to kick your butt. That about right?"

"I hate your fucking stupid ability to sum shit up so accurately," Vincent growled.

"I know. It's just my curse or something. Remind me never to introduce you to Sydney Kasal."

"He's the one that keeps sending you to Africa, right?" Vincent asked, grinning.

"Yup. And he's even worse about summarizing than I am!" Derek grinned.

"Oh hell no. I don't want to meet him," Vincent said, making a face. "Especially since you've been able to do that since we were in med school."

"Yeah, yeah. You're just jealous and stuff," Derek said, still grinning. Really, Derek reminded him of Maddy sometimes. But only sometimes.

"I'm hardly jealous of you, Stiles," Vincent muttered, rolling his eyes. "But now I have to figure out what the fuck to do with this lovely bit of information."

After all, if he was in love with D, it certainly wasn't the normal, disgustingly sappy, gushy type of love that you saw in movies or read about in Hallmark cards. It was something completely different than that. Not to mention, he had no clue whether or not D felt anything resembling what might or might not have been love for him.

"Well.. are you gonna forgive him for leaving? You might as well work that out so you can decide if you wanna stay mad at him or not."

Vincent snorted. "I'll forgive him if he comes back. But not til he tells me why the fuck he left in the first place."

"All right, so you can probably safely let go of your mad-on at him for a while. No use wasting all that energy being pissed off if he's not there to sock in the face," Derek suggested.

Vincent sighed. "It's not so much that I'm pissed that he left."

"Then why get mad?" Derek asked. "It's not like he doesn't already do crazy things."

"I'm pissed cause he left without saying a word," Vincent said, shaking his head. "That's why. I mean, I already _told_ him I wasn't following if he ran."

"He probably didn't believe you. I mean, his only previous experience is that nutter Vesca," Derek pointed out. He attempted a sip at his beer before sighing and looking at it mournfully. "You sure you don't want another?"

"Sure, why not. Drinking might help for now. Besides, if Angie comes home to find me passed out on the couch, she'll blame you."

"Eh, I'll just tell her that you needed sleep more. She'll believe me. You do look like shit," Derek said with a snort before he padded over to the fridge for more beer.

"Obviously, if I think that 2 bottles of beer is gonna do me in," Vincent said, rolling his eyes. "Thanks, Derek."

"No problem. We're still friends, right?"

"Do you really think I would have vouched for you otherwise?"

"Just checking," Derek said, rolling his eyes a little bit.

"You don't want to know what the first few things I _wanted_ to say were," Vincent teased. He took a drink of the beer once Derek brought it to him. "Come on. Let's work on getting this shit put away before Angie comes home and kills you for doing no work."

He'd just have to move on for the time being. Derek was right. No sense wasting all the time and effort being pissed at D when there wasn't much he could do about it. He had shit to do here and now. Like taking care of patients and trying not to die from his already insane schedule. And if D came back... well he could worry about that when it happened.


	10. Who says you can't go home? - Chapter 9.5

_This is ridiculous. I don't know why I'm here. I don't even know if he'll let me in,_ the Count thought as he stood at the door of his son's pet shop. It had been six months since he left St. Rita's. Six months since he'd resigned and left everything and every _one_ behind. He was still jumping at shadows. He still kept expecting to turn around to see Vincent either behind him or just a few steps away. And what was more alarming was the fact that he was feeling something akin to _disappointment_ when he found that Vincent _wasn't_ chasing after him.  
  
 _Maybe I'm going mad,_ the Count thought before he took a breath and knocked on the door. The minutes ticked by, two then three. The Count waited, shifting uncomfortably, and he was about to knock again when the door was opened, leaving him face to face with Leon Orcot.  
  
While he hadn't seen the Detective in years (not since Orcot had done what Vesca had been too craven to do and shot him in the head), he wasn't that surprised to see that Leon didn't look that much older than he had that night. but then, spending time with a kami tended to do _strange_ things to the human aging process if it was a long enough time and close enough contact. The magic rubbed off a bit. As it was, they stared at each other in silence for a few minutes, before Leon swore softly and slammed the door in the Count's face. From inside, Count D could _hear_ his son's detective muttering to himself.  
  
Then there was a shout that sounded a lot like "D! It's for you!" and footsteps leading away from the door.  
  
The Count sighed, waiting. He hoped, and not for the first time, that his son would agree to see him. He hadn't seen the boy since the night the detective shot him. While he had had opportunities over the intervening years, the time had never seemed right. He wasn't sure if the time was right _now_ , but he was out of places to go.   
  
_They say that sometimes you can't go home again. This time, I hope that whoever "they" are, that they are wrong._  
  
The door opened then, and his son was standing there. He looked surprised for maybe half a second, before the calm kami mask snapped neatly into place. Count D thought that that particular expression was genetic, but he had never decided it to test it, if only because it would mean interacting with his father, which was something he tried to avoid as much as possible these days.  
  
"Father," D finally said calmly. "As you can see, the Detective still has no manners. Won't you come in? It's tea time."  
  
 _It's always tea time in the pet shop,_ the Count thought, _and it has been for as long as I can remember._ To D, however, he just mustered up a slight barely-there smile, and nodded. "Tea would be welcome. I've been travelling a while."  
  
The Count followed his son inside once D motioned for him to follow. He settled on a small sofa in the first parlor-like room of the shop and watched as his son started to pour them tea.  
  
"So why have you come here?" D asked as he handed his father a cup. "I doubt it's to buy a pet."  
  
The Count sighed, looking down into his teacup. "I honestly don't know. I think I've finally gone mad. Again. Either that or I've run out of places to go."  
  
D blinked, surprised that he'd gotten an honest answer from his father. Those had always been hard to come by.   
  
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. _This feels wrong,_ the Count thought, taking a sip and wrinkling his nose at the too-sweet tea. He'd gotten too used to Vincent and to coffee to have much of a taste for tea anymore. _I shouldn't have come here. Too much has happened and this place doesn't feel like **home**. Perhaps I was just fooling myself into thinking that it ever would._  
  
D's voice broke into his reverie. "So why are you _really_ here, Father? I didn't invite you in so that you could brood in the middle of my shop."  
  
A faint smile touched the Count's lips for a brief moment. "It appears that Mr. Detective's lack of manners is rubbing off."   
  
A look of irritation crossed D's features then. "Father, do you _ever_ stop to think? I haven't seen you in over thirty years. And then you just show up out of _nowhere_ in the most disruptive manner imaginable, disrupt my life _all over again_ and to top it all off, it seems like you expect _me_ to fix your personal problems or something! And you make faces at my tea! So why are you here, and what do you want?" he snapped.  
  
The Count blinked at his son's forwardness, but he realized that D was right. He hadn't really thought this visit out very well. "I warn you, it's a long story."  
  
"There are no other kinds when our family is involved," D said, not backing down.  
  
"No, I suppose not," the Count said quietly. "And I suppose I do owe you an explanation for barging in on you like that. Very well, make yourself comfortable. This will take awhile."  
  
He took a sip of the tea, making another face before setting it aside and collecting his thoughts. Then he started to tell his son about where he'd been, what he'd been doing, the story mostly about St. Rita's, the work he'd been doing there with the children, and Vincent. In fact, most of the story was focused on Vincent, and how irritating the man was, and how he _hadn't_ chased after him. As he talked, he grew increasingly more agitated. Since Vincent _should_ have chased him, _especially_ since he was the reincarnation of Vesca Howell.  
  
It was D putting his teacup down on the saucer hard enough to rattle both that cut the Count off, as effectively as a slap to the face was.  
  
"Father, you have been going on about how he didn't follow you for the past _two hours_. He kept his word, and didn't follow you when you left. What more do you _want?_ " D asked, looking pointedly at the Count.  
  
The Count blinked, looking at his son as if he had just been slapped. "I don't... I mean..."  
  
"It's sad when the emotional maturity of the child is higher than that of the parent," D muttered. "Father, go home. It's obvious that you miss him, and you're miserable. And I think he's good for you. So just go home."  
  
"I can't," the Count said, shaking his head.  
  
"Why not?" D demanded. "You sounded like you were happy with him. So why can't you go back to that? Why are you trying to deny yourself happiness?"  
  
"I... it was getting serious," the Count said defensively. "The last time I got serious with a human, I got hunted for over 22 years. Vincent is Vesca's reincarnation, and I can't take that chance that he might--"  
  
"Father, if he was going to chase you, he would have started by now," D said, cutting his father off. "You were scared and you ran. And now you're realizing it was a mistake, and you're afraid to go back. I think is what you spent the last two hours telling me."  
  
The Count was quiet for a few moments, mulling over what his son had said.   
  
"Go home, Father. Staying here or running won't make you happy, and it won't solve anything."   
  
"I suppose not. I'm sorry for intruding, D," the Count said, before getting to his feet and seeing himself out.  
  
Perhaps his son was right. Perhaps he did need to go back and face his demons. Or at the very least, face Vincent. And he needed to go back and do it before it was too late. 


	11. Chapter 11

It really _was_ perfect weather for a funeral. Overcast, cold, and with a constant steady drizzle of sleet. The ground was mostly frozen, and covered with a light dusting of snow from a few days before.

The mourners were mostly staff from St. Rita's Hospital. They were talking about the deceased, as was normal for a funeral. If you were listening, you could hear such phrases as "drove the motorcycle off the overpass" and "fell asleep at the wheel" and "very drunk."

Even Madeline was wearing black, which was all but unheard of for her. And she knelt down, placing a flower on the fresh grave. Then she started coughing when she smelled cigarettes. She turned, glaring at Vincent who was standing against a tree, under an umbrella, smoking.

"You _jerk!_ You aren't supposed to smoke at a funeral!" she hissed.

"Considering that he died by stealing my motorcycle, he should be glad I'm doing anything for him at all," Vincent growled. "C'mere, Maddy, you're going to catch cold like that. You look half frozen already."

She sighed, brushing herself off, and she took one last look at Tony Harris's grave before walking over to Vincent.

"Aren't you even the slightest bit sad that he's gone?" she asked after a moment or two.

Vincent started leading her away from the crowd of mourners. He seemed to be thinking about it.

"Nothing I did could help him. Maddy, I'm honestly surprised it took this long. He'd been poisoning himself since I was born. Maybe before, I dunno. But he was half in the bottle my whole life. Sometimes a lot more than half. We never understood each other. And a lot of the time I hated him. I can't remember much of the love part, but I'm sure it was there when I was little," Vincent admitted.

"Vincent," Madeline murmured, biting her lip.

"It's okay," Vincent said, waving her off. "Well, maybe not, but it's gonna have to be, I think. It's kind of sad, really. The only mourners that are here are my friends, and that's more for moral support for me or whatever."

"You still have all of us," Madeline said, hugging him a little.

"Yeah. Thank god for that, Maddy. Sometimes, I think that you and the cat, and the others at St. Rita's are all I have to count on."

"Don't forget your harem of little girl patients who you played White Knight for," Madeline teased, grinning impishly.

"Yeah, well, they kind of fall into the St. Rita's group," Vincent said, shrugging. "Speaking of which, I got a card from Sarah the other day. She sent me a card, and some flowers."

"So that's where those weird colored poinsettias came from," Madeline mused.

"They aren't weird colored. They're rainbow colored. She wanted to have rainbow leaves and flowers, remember?" He was still pleased with how Sarah's case had turned out. He had managed to save her, even without D's help.

"What about D?" Maddy asked after a few quiet moments.

"Let's not talk about D, all right?" Vincent asked, shaking his head. "Not today."

And not after him being gone with no word at all for over a year and a half. Vincent wasn't sure if he was ever coming back. But it didn't matter. He was past that. Apart from the sleepless nights, and the occasional wondering where D was, and what he was doing, Vincent had put D behind him. Mostly because thinking about him either hurt or pissed Vincent off.

"All right," Madeline conceded. Then, a hint of her normal impish smile touched her features. "So... is there going to be a party now?" she asked.

"You mean a wake? Yeah. Best sendoff I can think of," Vincent said. "C'mon. Let's get to the car where it's warm."

He led her to the limo then. Maybe the weather would improve, even if Christmas was on the way. He just hoped that Christmas would be quiet this year. No father to haul him to mass, and hopefully no emergencies this year. Nothing too big anyway. Now all he had to hope was that his scars would stop aching from the cold weather. But that was probably a vain hope. And he didn't think Santa could deliver anyway.

 

*~*~*

December 24th. 9:37 PM. Vincent was working the ER Shift yet again. He wouldn't be off until tomorrow morning at 8 AM. He still wasn't a huge fan of Christmas, but at least this year his father wouldn't be coming by to try to drag him to mass.

He had actually just finished a surgery, and the patient had been stitched up, bandaged, and wheeled off to recovery. The poor man was a victim of a Christmas party gone bad, and Vincent was planning on visiting him later. As it was, he was still covered in blood and about to scrub it off when he heard a commotion going on outside.

"Um sir, madam... you can't go in there. Dr. Harris is in the middle of surgery," Vincent heard one of the nurses protest.

"I don't care. I _do_ think that Dr. Harris will agree to see me."

Vincent paused, before stalking out and finding himself face to face with a nurse who was arguing with D.

"What the _hell_ is going on?!" he demanded.

"Dr. Harris, I tried to warn him, I mean her, I mean this _person_ ," the nurse said, clearly flustered.

"Fuck," Vincent said eloquently, before stalking back into the other room and _slamming_ the door when he went.

Derek, who had been out on a coffee break, walked in just in time to see that exchange. "So," he said to D, "you two know each other, huh?"

D blinked, looking at Derek. The young doctor was unfamiliar. "Who are you?"

"Me? I'm... going this way, actually. I have rounds to do before the end of my shift," Derek said grinning. "Beware of Vincent. He's cranky. But you already saw that."

And with that, Derek headed off, not even giving D a chance to respond.

"Yes, I suppose I did," D murmured.

Vincent stalked out of the other room about 10 minutes later. He had his jacket on.

"Dr. Harris, where are you going?" one of the nurses asked.

"Out for a cigarette. I'll be right back," Vincent said. And he cast around looking for D. Who was, he noticed, nowhere around at present. Which suited him just fine.

He went out to smoke and was on what had to be his third cigarette when he heard footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and swore softly when he saw D behind him.

"What the fuck do you want?" he growled. "In case you didn't notice, I'm on shift. I don't have time to hear your goddamn explanation of why the hell you left or why the _fuck_ you came back. You think you'd learn the concept of timing eventually."

"Vincent," D murmured. That was about as far as he got before the surgeon cut him off again.

"Oh, so you've been gone for a fucking year and a half and all the sudden it's 'Vincent' again?" Vincent asked, blowing out some smoke.

"Would you prefer I started calling you Dr. Harris again?!" D snapped.

"Fuck," Vincent muttered, dropping his cigarette and crushing it out. Then he sighed. "You and I need to talk. We really do. But I'm on shift. And I don't have the time to just leave and have the goddamn heart to heart that we need to have. Or whatever." He drew his jacket around him further. His arms ached. And he was cold. "I get off tomorrow at eight. We can do this over breakfast if you want. But I don't have the time to do it now. My patients come first."

And with that, he turned to go back inside.

D s stunned. He'd been expecting Vincent's anger. But he'd also expected Vincent to want to have it out then and there. But Vincent hadn't followed him when he left. So perhaps he shouldn't have been so surprised.

"I have to get back," Vincent said quietly.

"Vincent. Wait. We need to talk."

"I know. But I can't right now. I'm not Vesca Howell, D. I'm not going to drop everything for you. Do you get that yet? Or do you have to leave again for another few years to get it to sink in?"

D stared at Vincent, gaping like a fish out of water.

"Tomorrow morning. And that's your Christmas present. Night, D," Vincent said, before heading back inside. _He_ had patients to care for after all. He didn't have time to argue with D all night.

And here he thought it would be a quiet Christmas. He really should have known better.

 

*~*~*

This was quickly turning into the worst Christmas _ever._

Vincent had informed D that the kami would be the one buying breakfast before taking them to a diner that he liked to frequent. It was one of those holes in the wall that really _was_ open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. Because of this, it was the kind of place that attracted crazies on Christmas day because most _normal_ people were home with their families.

Currently, Vincent was sipping coffee and listening to the war that the people at two nearby tables were having with the tabletop jukeboxes. The soundtrack was flipping wildly between 80's music and Christmas carols. At the moment, Rick Astley was cheerfully informing the patrons of the diner that they knew the game and were going to play it.

Vincent was seriously thinking of killing all parties involved. He sighed, wishing that he could smoke in this place.

"You wanted to talk, D. So... talk. Before I kill those people playing with the jukeboxes."

"Their taste in music definitely leaves something to be desired," the Count agreed. But that was all he said. And Vincent sighed, before finishing his coffee.

"Do we _really_ have to do this like a game of 20 fucking questions?" Vincent asked, before ordering more coffee. "Cause I don't have that many. I only have three."

"And what would those be, Dr. Harris?" D asked, sipping his tea.

"I'm going to ask them one at a time, so that you can't dodge any of them."

"That doesn't surprise me much," the Count said, rolling his eyes.

"Why did you leave?" Vincent asked, point-blank.

The Count shifted, looking uncomfortable. "I... the answer to that is not as important as you seem to think it is," he said finally.

"D, the time for you to dodge the question is over. You came back. So you _knew_ I was going to ask why you left," Vincent pointed out.

D sighed, staring down into his tea. "Old habits die hard, Vincent," he murmured. "The last time I got too close to someone, I ran and I was chased for over twenty years."

"So... what? You wanted me to chase you?" Vincent asked, sounding a little confused.

"No," D said. "Though I was surprised when you didn't."

"I told you I wouldn't. I told you I had too many fucking things to do here."

"I know," the Count sighed. "You were very close. _We_ were. I got scared."

Vincent blinked. He hadn't expected that. Or rather, he hadn't expected D to _admit_ it.

"Scared of what?" he asked carefully after a few moments.

"Being in the revenge business doesn't really leave one much time for romance. Especially romance with people like you, Vincent," the Count said.

"People like me? You mean doctors?" Vincent asked, looking amused.

"No. Humans," the Count said quietly.

"Well... I hate to break it to you... but it doesn't really seem to me like you're really doing the whole revenge thing anymore," Vincent pointed out.

The Count snorted softly. "You've already asked me more than three questions," he teased.

"Yeah, but only one of the questions I originally had. But here's the next one," Vincent said. Really, D had answered that one pretty much to his satisfaction. "Why did you come _back_?"

The Count shifted, considering this for a few moments. "I read that article you wrote," he said finally. Which in Vincent's mind, really wasn't an answer at all.

"Which one?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"The only one I saw by you," the Count said. "The one in _Lancet_. I had to actually double check to make sure it was _you_ that wrote it."

"Oh. You mean _Why the world doesn't need Superman_?" Vincent asked, grinning.

"It was still a ridiculous title, but yes," D said.

"Hey, I am still _amazed_ that they published it with that title," Vincent said, shrugging.

Really, he hated doing research, but when he bothered, he went all the way. That article was all about how Caduceus, while it claimed to be on the cutting edge of medical technology, wasn't really necessary because it didn't really _help_ anyone. Caduceus only helped patients who were disgustingly rich or who had some super-rare medical condition that they deemed worthy of studying. The people who _really_ needed cutting edge technology, like the ones that Vincent saw? They couldn't afford Caduceus. And what good was an organization like that when they _weren't_ really helping _anyone_. Throw in that he'd even gotten Derek to help a little on it... and that would be why Caduceus currently didn't want anything to do with _either_ of them.

"I don't buy it," Vincent said, shaking his head. "That article was published months ago. Besides, you wouldn't have come back just because of that. Not after you left without a word, the way you did."

D sighed softly. "You are not making this easy."

"You didn't make it easy for me when you up and fucking left. Of _course_ I'm not going to make it easy for you," Vincent said, a faint growl in his voice. " _You_ came back, D. _You_ knew there were going to be questions. So now _you_ have to answer them."

"...You didn't follow me," D said quietly after a few minutes ticked by in uncomfortable silence.

Vincent _stared_ at him. "You keep coming back to that. I'm not Vesca fucking Howell. I'm not going to spend 20 some years chasing you around the entire goddamn world just to give your ego a boost. Or whatever getting chased does for you. I had too many fucking things to do _here_ to follow you."

"Perhaps that's the answer then," D said quietly. Because ultimately, Vincent _wasn't_ Vesca. It had taken him running, and Vincent _not_ following for him to finally, _finally_ realize that. And really, he thought that both of them, and their relationship, was better off because of that.

Vincent considered D for a few long moments. And took a sip of his coffee. "So I guess the last question is are you going to stay?" he finally asked.

"I don't think I would have come back, only to run again, Vincent," the Count said. "I'm tired of running."

"So... where does that leave us?"

D sighed, finishing his tea. "I... would like to try it again. If you're willing. I mean... I know we probably just can't pick up where we left off but..."

"What we had was good," Vincent conceded. "I don't believe in happily ever afters, D."

The Count looked uncertain, about to protest, but Vincent wasn't done.

"I do believe in endings that don't suck though. Maybe we can have one of those."

"Maybe we can," the count conceded, with a faint smile.

Vincent smiled and breakfast _finally_ arrived. Maybe this wasn't going to be the worst Christmas ever. It was turning into one that was actually tolerable. And maybe he and D would actually have an ending that didn't suck. Those were always _much_ more interesting than a happily ever after. No matter what the stories said. 


End file.
